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FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 


REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D 


BEQUEATHED    BY  HIM  TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

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M^.  /s-'Vj 


r. 


I 


.OFPiW^ 


£ 


Warp   and   \te»71933: 


ft. 


I    r 


A    BOOK   OF   VERSE 


HY 


SAMUEL    W1LLOUGHBY    DUFFIELD 


Spin,  spin,  Clotho.  spin  ! 

Lachesis,  iwist !  and  Atropos,  sever! 
Darkness  is  strung,  and  so  is  Sin, 

But  only  (Jod  endures  forever. 

LowBLU 


N  EW    YORK: 
ANSON  I).  F.  RANDOLPH  &  CO., 

-  7')     B  R  O  A  I)  W  A  Y. 

1870. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1370,  by 

Anson  D.  F.  Randolph  &  Co.. 

Ln  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


To  One  Nearest  and  Dearest 

and 

to  those  other 

True  and  Faithful  Hearts 

who  love  me 

and  whom  i  love 

I  Dedicate 

WHATEVER   OF    GOOD    THESE    PAGES 
MAY    CONTAIN 


WARP  AND  WOOF 


SAMPLE   CARD. 


PAGE 

At  the  Loom  ,         .         .         .         .         .    u 


WOVEN  FROM  OLD  THREADS. 

Atalanta  and  Hippomenes 17 

SARrEDON 26 

M  Leyden,  a.  d.  1574  "  .              28 

On  the  Way 49 

WOVEN  IN  WAR  TIME. 

Red,  White,  and  Blue 53 

The  Old  and  the  New  Salamis    ....  54 

On  the  High  Seas 56 

The  Faith  of  the  Hour 58 

Richmond!     April  3d,  1865 60 

A  Memory 62 

Decoration  Day  .                 63 

WOVEN  FROM  CHURCH  PATTERNS. 

Sabricius 67 

Laurentius 75 

Textus  Receptus 81 

Cyprian's  Words 85 

The  Picture  of  Christ 87 

vii 


Vlll 


SAMPLE   CARD. 


WOVEN  AT  ODD  HOURS. 

PAGE 

The  Tyrant  of  Troppau 97 

Sir  Kay's  Excuse 102 

Summer  Reading .        .106 

Smoke  and  Chess 108 

A  Small  Warbler no 

Undergraduate  Orioles  .        .        *        .        .        .111 

Renovation 113 

On  my  Back 114 

Midas 115 

Castles  in  the  Air.         .         ,         .         .         .         .116 

Terra  Incognita 119 

From  Uhland 120 

Two  of  a  Trade 121 

The  Lost  Song 122 

Page  and  Pageant        ....  .  123 


WOVEN  ON  QUIET  DAYS 


The  Palmer's  Preaching 
The  Sphynx  . 
Civitas  Dei 
Three  in  One 
Whence  and  Whither     . 
The  Distant  King 
"Pulvis  et  Umbra  Sumus 
Paullus  or  Paul  . 

EVANUIT       . 

At  the  Sabbath's  Close 

Thalatta!  Thalatta!     . 

Dreaming 

The  Pair-Oar   . 

"Justitia"   . 

Fairy-Tales 

The  Two  Heavens 


129 

133 

136 
138 
140 
141 
H3 
145 
147 
149 

150 
152 
154 
156 

157 
159 


SAMPLE    CARD.  IX 

FAGB 

The  Name  in  the  Bark 161 

Gropings 163 

A  Spring  Day 165 

Weeds 167 

My  Preacher 169 

In  Darkness 171 

Ad  Meipsum 172 

SHREDS  AND  TAGS. 

Dies  Ir.4£ 177 

The  Ideals  —  from  Schiller  .        .  181 


The  Breaking  of  the  Thread        .       .  187 


AT  THE  LOOM. 


TTJAST  thou,   then,   a  plentiful  store 
M.  L    Of  wit  and  wisdom  and  art  divine? 
Lowest  thou  mystery  all  the  more, 

Because  in  its  bosom  the  truth  doth  shine  ? 
Art  thou  broad  in  thy  brains  and  brow?  — 
Merry  companion  of  mine  art  thou. 

Dost  thou  see  in  a  little  thing, 
Blossom  or  berry,  or  forest  leaf, 

Falling  in  Fall  or  rising  in  Spring, 
A  legend  or  tragedy  writ  in  brief? 

Are  thine  eyes  on  such  pages  now  ?  — 

Merry  companion  of  mine  art  thou. 

Canst  thou  sing  to  the  nested  bird, 

Chirrup  with  crickets,   or  hum  with  bees, 

Lire  with  them  in  their  life,  unstirred 
By  frivolous  fashions,  among  the  trees  ? 

Doth  thy  sympathy  these  allow?  — 

Merry  companion  of  mine  art  thou. 

Hadst  thou  sooner  behold  the  red 
Shining  up  by  the  mountain' s  crest, 


XIV  AT   THE   LOOM. 

Breathing  freshness  from  overhead, 

And  talking  with  Nature  at  her  best? 
Sooner  this  than  a  magnate's  bow?  — 
Merry  companion  of  mine  art  thou. 

Dost  thou  love  with  a  poet's  love 
Beauty  of  sky  and  beauty  of  sea, 

Beauty  i7i  field  and  beauty  in  grove, 
Beauty  071  lake,  and  beauty  on  lea  ? 

Loves  like  these  never  fade,  I  trow : 

Merry  companion  of  mine  art  thou. 

Thou  and  I  through  the  livelong  day, 
Gathering  fancies  out  of  the  world, 
Pluckifig  pictures  —  shall  stroll  and  stray 
In  every  nook  where  a  song  is  curled ; 
Bou?id  with  me  in  a  common  vow, 
Merry  companion  of  mine  art  thou. 


WOVEN    FROM    OLD   THREADS. 


ATALANTA  AND  HIPPOMENES. 

UPON  the  yellow  margin  of  the  sea 
By  hollow-footed  surges  trampled  down, 
Full  in  the  strong  breath  of  the  salt,  swift  breeze, 
Arcadian  Atalanta  chose  the  lists. 
Divine  she  stood,  at  ease  amid  the  throng, 
With  golden  hair  in  wavy  lines  blown  back, 
And  golden  quiver  slung  across  her  arm 
In  careless  grace  —  one  quick,  high-arching  foot 
Beating  impatience  on  the  sodden  sand 
Which  gathered  into  moisture  at  her  tread. 

One  while  she  looked  beyond  the  broken  surf, 
And  saw  white  sails  against  the  azure  sky 
And  flaking  foam  hurled  high  by  many  oars, 
And  listened  to  their  pulsing  roll  which  beat 
Responsive  to  the  beating  of  her  heart ; 
Then  turned  upon  a  curious,  twisted  shell, 
With  myriad  whorls  like  Minos'  labyrinth 
Afar  in  Crete  —  caught  it,  and  cast  it  off 
Among  the  <  ombing  breakers  Inward  bound, 

2*  17 


1 8  WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 

And  laughed  to  see  it  skip  and  plunge  and  sink; 
A  cruel  laugh  —  a  hard,  disdainful- laugh, 
Self-confident,  and  bitter  as  the  sea. 

The  elders  marked  the  course  — slowly  along 
The  hard,  firm  margin  pacing  with  a  care 
On  which  hung  life  and  death.     Two  willow  wands 
Peeled  silver-white  they  fixed  at  either  end  ; 
And  then,  in  the  great  hush  of  coming  fate, 
When  men  breathe  hard  and  none  may  dare  to  speak, 
They  took  their  stations  sadly  and  in  fear. 
And  then  Hippomenes,  the  chosen  judge, 
Rose  up  and,  stately,  strode  into  the  midst. 

And  the  high  gods  looked  from  the  sky  that  day 
Upon  the  maiden,  snowy-pure  and  cold 
As  desolate  peaks  —  upon  the  long  sea-reach  — 
Upon  the  eager  suitors,  hungry-eyed 
With  gazing  at  the  fairness  to  be  won  — 
Upon  the  mute,  attentive  throng,  who  crept 
Closer  together  as  the  moment  came, 
And  who,  in  that  fair  face,  only  beheld 
The  death  which  threatened  to  all  lagging  feet. 

Aye,  she  was  beautiful,  this  huntress  maid, 
This  princess  light  and  bright,  whose  ready  hand 
Twanged  well-wrought  bow-strings  after  flying  deer; 
Whose  foot  outwent  the  hounds  of  Thessaly ; 
Whose  eye  was  keener  than  the  falcon's  glance ; 
Whose  lifted  spear  made  men  to  stand  aghast 
And  reel  affrighted  from  the  fiend  which  held 


ATALANTA  AND   ff/PPOMENES.  1 9 

Possession  of  that  unrelenting  face. 

Aye,  she  was  goddess-like,  white-armed  and  poised 

In  truest  balance  of  divinity: 

But  under  these  were  hid  the  unexplored 

Deep  harmonies  which  tremble  in  men's  lives  — 

Chords  needing  but  a  master-hand  to  strike 

That  they  might  tell,  instead  of  woes  and  wars, 

Of  love  which  swept  these  lesser  notes  aside, 

And  rose,  once  sounded,  over  all  the  rest. 

To  her  a  fearful  saying,  boding  grief, 
Came  once  with  warning  :    "  Marry  not,  O  maid, 
For  wedlock  shall  be  ruin."     So,  alone, 
Tempting  the  furthest  fastness  of  the  woods, 
She  moved  serene  in  joys  of  open  air, 
And  scorned  to  hear  a  word  of  tenderness. 

Until,  reluctant,  to  appease  the  men 
Who  sought  her  hero-wise  and  gave  and  took 
Great  blows  to  gain  her  favor,  and  who  kept 
Track  of  the  ground  she  walked  on,  worshipping, 
As  though  the  woodland  goddess,  Artemis, 
Had  taken  on  such  guise  to  tread  the  earth ; 
She  found  this  one  condition  which  she  used: 
Whoever  held  himself  her  worthy  mate 
Must  prove  as  well  her  equal  in  the  race ; 
But,  if  Defeat  ran  grimly  at  his  heels 
And  clutched  him  round  the  heart  and  broke  his 

strength, 
He  should  receive,  in  token  of  her  faith, 
Death  by  the  sword  —  and  unto  this  she  kept 


20  WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 

So  deadly  true,  that  many  failed  thereat, 
And  died  because  of  love  and  lack  of  speed. 
For  she  was  swifter  than  an  eagle's  flight 
Through  the  broad  heaven  ;  so  light  of  step  was  she 
That  none  might  seek  to  vie  with  her  and  live. 

The  perfect  day  shone  on  without  a  cloud  ; 
And  men  kept  silent,  waiting  for  the  end ; 
While  still  was  heard  the  ripple  of  the  brine 
Trundling  discarded  shells  upon  the  beach, 
And  waters  breaking  in  monotonously. 
Still  did  the  galleys  with  their  brazen  prows 
Cleave  the  high  ocean-swells  and  leap  along, 
The  shields  of  heroes  flashing  from  their  sides  — 
Still  did  the  pitiless  glory  of  the  sun 
Irradiate  that  strip  of  fateful  shore  — 
Still  in  his  hand,  as  yet  aloft  in  air, 
Hippomenes  displayed  the  judge's  staff, 
Whose  fall  should  be  the  signal  for  the  race  — 
And  the  high  gods  still  watched  from  overhead, 
Seeing  what  labors  men  endure  for  love. 

But  Aphrodite,  goddess  of  the  foam, 
To  whom  belongs  the  frothing  of  the  wine 
And  all  the  bubbling  of  the  cup  of  youth, 
Infused  Hippomenes  with  strong  desire 
Himself  to  test  his  chances  for  the  maid. 
Yet  was  he  calm  withal,  and  bore  his  place; 
Delaying,  that  the  first  hard  strife  might  cease. 

The  moment  came  —  a  single  downward  stroke 
Of  hand  and  truncheon,  and  they  bounded  off, 


ATALANTA   AXD  HIPPOMENES.  21 

Tearing  the  matted  sand  with  naked  feet ; 

While  full  in  front,  with  tresses  on  the  breeze, 

And  springing  step  which  put  their  best  to  shame, 

Arcadian  Atalanta  led  the  van, 

Supremely  swift,  as  when  a  falling  star 

Trails  its  long,  fiery  hair  against  the  night. 

Then  backward,  like  a  lioness  aroused 

She  darted,  giving  orders,  and  the  guards 

Seized  on  those  luckless  lords,  and  dragged  them  off", 

And  slew  them  with  the  sword,  not  sparing  one  — 

Inflicting  grief  upon  the  throng  around. 

While  she  who  did  it  all  —  a  trifle  flushed, 

With  breath  which  came  and  went  a  motion  more 

Than  when  of  old  she  stood  upon  the  strand  — 

Seemed  to  Hippomehes  far  lovelier 

Than  any  maiden  of  the  maids  of  Greece. 

Descending  from  his  station,  with  a  prayer 
To  Aphrodite,  who  had  urged  his  soul, 
He  strode  in  front,  and  bending  royally 
Before  the  daughter  of  Iasius, 
Kinglike  he  spoke,  and  proffered  to  essay 
Against  her,  for  the  prize  herself  had  set, 
Another  contest  such  as  was  the  last : 
"  For  he  had  sooner  die  and  perish  soon 
Slain  in  such  wise,  than  drag  a  weary  life, 
Forgotten  and  forsaken,  through  the  world." 

The  princess  looked  and  saw  a  proper  man, 
Right  regal  in  the  fashion  of  his  strength, 
With  mighty  sinews,  features  of  that  brown 


22  WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 

Which  is  the  guerdon  of  the  healthful  sun 
When  wine-cups  redden  not  and  all  is  pure ; 
And  seeing,  loved  —  for  so  ordained  the  queen 
Who  sways  our  hearts  however  she  may  choose. 

On  the  one  hand  the  solemn  Parcae  stood, 
With  thread  and  weft  and  shears  to  clip  the  skein, 
Which  is  the  tangled  semblance  of  our  days; 
While  on  the  other  tarried,  beckoning, 
Idalian  Aphrodite,  turning  back 
With  an  entreating,  wistful  tenderness, 
Before  she  left  her  lonely  on  the  earth. 
He  was  too  brave  to  die  ;  and  yet,  alas ! 
None  may  withstand  the  Fates.     If  it  might  be 
That  he  was  victor,  she  could  lose  her  pride 
And  take  the  future  as  a  cheerful  lot. 

But  he  with  gesture  and  with  hasty  word 
Repelled  his  friends  who  gave  discouragement, 
Since  unto  him  a  presence,  viewless,  sweet, 
With  rich,  soft  breath  compact  of  odors  rare, 
Diffusing  pleasure,  had  approached.     It  spoke 
Some  low,  clear  words ;  and  though  he  might  not 

catch 
A  glimpse  of  deity,  he  felt  its  proof 
In  that  which  came  from  thence  a  gift  to  him  : 
For  three  bright  apples,  grown  from  choicest  gold, 
On  golden  boughs,  with  golden  leaves  for  shade, 
In  gardens  of  her  own,  the  goddess  brought 
Unseen,  and  thrust  them  underneath  his  robe, 
With  whispered  words  of  comfort;  and  the  crowd 
(As  is  the  manner  of  prosaic  souls) 


ATALANTA   AXD  HIPPOMENES.  23 

Deemed  only  that  some  hardier  wind  had  blown 
A  burst  of  inland  perfume  over  them  ! 

And  then  advanced  a  man  of  snowy  beard, 
Who  drew  one  short,  deep  furrow  in  the  sand 
With  his  staff's  point,  and,  mourning  in  his  heart, 
Made  signal  of  a  preparation  closed. 
And  they  passed  steadily  toward  their  goal 
Expectant,  pausing  at  the  place  assigned ; 
While  strong  and  loud  and  ringing  like  the  clang 
Of  sword  on  shield  burst  forth  the  final  word. 

No  whirlwind  hurrying  through  the  desert  dunes 
So  clashed  and  threw  the  sand,  as  these  who  flew 
O'er  the  sea-margin,  hurling  far  away 
Wet,  clinging  particles  from  flying  feet. 
Shoulder  by  shoulder,  pace  for  pace  they  sped, 
Scaring  the  mussels  stranded  on  the  coast ; 
Making  the  crabs  slip  sideways  to  the  sea; 
Frighting  the  sail-winged  gulls  from  idleness 
And  easy  circling  after  finny  spoil ; 
Holding  uplifted  heads  against  the  sharp, 
Refreshing  saltness  of  the  breath  of  spray, 
Either  intent  to  win;  until  it  chanced 
That  Atalanta  gained  the  foremost  place, 
And  set  a  spear's-length  as  the  space  between. 
For  then  Hippomenes  with  sudden  force 
Flung  a  bright  apple,  yellow-hued  and  fair, 
Gleaming  and  dazzling  with  supernal  light, 
Athwart  her  and  beyond,  toward  the  cliffs. 
And  then  the  maiden,  pausing,  caught  it  up — • 
But  yet  came  after,  and  went  bounding  by. 


24  WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 

Another  sphere  of  gold  he  cast  aside 
Into  the  very  edges  of  the  surf, 
And  Cytherea,  hovering  close,  impelled 
The  Arrow-Footed  to  attain  the  prize  ; 
While  still  her  suitor  pressed  undaunted  on, 
For  now  the  flickering  line  of  silver-white 
Pointed  the  utmost  limit  near  at  hand. 

Again  the  damsel,  like  the  blinding  bolt 
Of  summer  lightning,  passed  him  in  the  course ; 
And  he,  with  fear  of  death  before  his  eyes, 
Cast  hope  and  trust  and  confidence  away 
With  his  last  apple,  fairer  than  the  rest. 
Full  to  the  side  he  threw  it,  as  he  sprang 
Across  the  intervening  stretch  of  shore, 
With  quick,  hard-gathered  breath  and  parching  lips 
And  muscles  quivering  from  overtask. 
Full  to  the  side  the  maiden  swerved  in  chase, 
And  he  swept  on,  successful,  to  the  goal. 

Then  was  there  joy  throughout  the  Grecian  land  k, 
And  mellow  piping  upon  tuneful  reeds ; 
And  songs  and  jests  and  dances  in  the  shade ; 
And  games  and  gladsome  days  and  gayety. 
The  realm  was  left  forgotten  of  its  lord ; 
The  hounds,  forsaken  by  their  huntress-queen, 
Went  wretchedly  in  couples  up  and  down ; 
The  spear  leaned  idly  rusting  in  its  nook ; 
The  bow  lay  bent,  the  arrows  strewn  around, 
The  buskins  tossed  aside.     The  forest  stood 
Amid  its  thickets,  silent  as  at  first 


ATALANTA   AND  HIPPOMENES.  25 

Before  its  glades  re-echoed  with  the  horn. 
And  they,  for  whom  the  land  was  jubilant, 
Found  an  oblivion  of  sweet  delight 
Securely  resting  in  each  other's  arms; 
Comprising,  in  themselves  and  in  their  joy,  ■ 
A  world  in  which  the  dwellers  were  but  two. 

Until  that  fate,  which  follows  all  mankind, 
Pursued  them  both,  and  sent  Cybele  there ; 
For,  careless  in  their  love,  they  ceased  to  pay 
Due  reverence  to  other  than  themselves, 
And  thus  called  down  a  vengeance  from  on  high. 
With  fatal  wrath  she  visited  their  sin ; 
And  now,  their  human  figure  laid  aside, 
Transformed  to  lion  and  to  lioness, 
Yoked  to  her  car  they  drag  her  through  the  vales  — 
For  so  the  faith  of  oracles  is  kept. 
3 


26  WOVEN  FROM   OLD    THREADS. 


SARPEDON. 

.  .  .  .  "  Ubi  ingens 


Sarpedon." 


Dead,  on  the  plain  before  the  walls  of  Troy; 
Dead,  in  the  shadows  of  the  setting  sun ; 
Stripped  of  his  royal  armor  —  desolate  — 
No  more  the  stay  of  Priam  and  his  house  — 
He  lies  alone,  among  the  fallen  Greeks. 

Him,  in  his  pride,  well-greaved  Patroclus  slew, 
And  sent  his  soul  to  Hades,  with  the  throng 
Of  valiant  Argives  conquered  by  his  hand. 
Alas,  Sarpedon !  whom  we  called  the  Great  — 
Mighty  of  spirit,  mightier  in  strength, 
And  mightiest  in  birth  from  Zeus  supreme  — 
Had  I  but  died  with  thee  ! 

O  gallant  heart, 
That  gave  thyself  to  save  a  ruined  race ! 
O  victor  through  defeat !  —  may  it  be  well 
Among  Elysian  fields  by  Lethe's  bank! 

The  golden  horses  of  the  sun  had  passed 
Beyond  the  red  horizon's  dimmest  edge; 
And  Phoebus,  bending  from  the  chariot, 
Majestic,  robed  in  light,  with  naked  arm 
Pointed  toward  the  East,  and  motioned  still 
As  if  to  give  command. 


SARPEDON.  27 

And  then  there  came 
Between  the  glory  of  the  setting  sun 
And  us,  the  shadow  of  an  awful  dark  ; 
And  in  it  were  two  forms  —  one  pale  and  wan, 
With  sunken  cheeks,  and  hollow  eyes,  and  hands 
That  grasped  beyond  it,  clutching  at  the  air ; 
The  other  dim  and  dusky,  indistinct, 
Shrouded  in  mystery,  yet  friendlier 
In  all  that  might  be  viewed  of  mien  and  look 
Than  that  first  dreadful  figure. 

Hovering 
Along  the  borders  of  the  lower  air, 
They  sank  to  earth  where  great  Sarpedon  lay 
Still,  in  the  trampled  dust;  and  then  one  said, 
"  To  Lycia  !  "   and  pointed  with  his  hand 
As  did  Apollo  —  and  they  took  him  up 
Between  them,  and  I  knew  that  awful  shape 
Whom  men  call  Death,  and  dread  to  look  upon ; 
And  that  mysterious  one,  dim,  dusky  Sleep, 
His  own  twin  brother. 

Swifter  than  the  speed 
Of  Hermes,  messenger  of  Zeus,  they  flew ; 
Yet  tenderly,  as  one  would  a  sick  child, 
They  bore  the  great  Sarpedon  to  his  rest 
Among  the  Lycians,  by  the  tideless  sea. 


28  WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 


"LEYDEN,  a.  d.  1574." 

Upon  the  stubborn  anvil  of  our  fate 
We  fashion  out  the  metal  that  we  are, 
Baser  or  finer  as  the  test  shall  prove. 
And  he  who  has  endured  the  hottest  flame, 
Comes  forth  most  tractable,  and  so  is  worked 
Into  what  form  shall  please  the  Master  best. 
It  is  the  souls  which  bear  most  fearful  scars 
Whom  God  delights  to  honor,  and  whose  place 
Is  nearest  to  Him  on  the  trial  day. 
Much  has  been  granted  to  them,  and  their  love 
Is  greater  than  of  those  who  suffered  less ; 
For  so  the  unseen  purpose  keeps  its  ground 
Beside  the  furnace  when  it  glows  the  most, 
And,  if  we  will  but  see  it,  leaves  us  not 
To  perish  in  the  fierceness  of  the  heat. 
Thus  may  we,  in  the  struggle  of  our  lives, 
Move  ever  upward,  till  we  break  and  leave 
The  dross  which  wrapped  us  closest  at  the  first. 

Through  every  life  may  run  a  thread  of  faith, 
On  which,  as  on  a  necklace,  day  by  day, 
It  may  be  ours  to  string  the  benisons 
Of  God,  the  Only  Wise,  and  thus  obtain 
The  perfect  riches  of  another  world, 
Which  neither  fail  nor  fade  —  whose  glory-light 
Takes  lustre  from  the  smile  of  Him  who  reigns 
Forever  and  forever,  and  whose  eyes 
Count  nothing  holy  which  is  void  of  Him. 


"LEYDEN,A.D.    1574."  29 

There  have  been  those  of  every  age  and  clime, 
Men  who  have  wrestled  strongly  with  themselves, 
Who,  beating  down  all  pride  and  self-conceit, 
Stood  forth  in  might  which  was  not  of  the  earth ; 
Men  who  have  faced  the  fagot  and  the  stake, 
Conquered  the  rack,  and  even  from  their  foes 
Won  the  unwilling  tribute  of  a  tear ; 
Men  who  have  borne  the  hatred  of  the  world, 
Despised  its  honors,  and  in  spurning  them 
Gained  threefold  praises  ;  men  whose  hopes  were  set 
In  one  grand  thought  of  duty  unto  God. 

Such  are  the  names  upon  the  scroll  of  fame 
In  golden  letters,  as  the  Saxon  king 
Wrote  for  his  people's  guidance  and  his  own. 
Such  are  the  deeds  at  which  we  pause  and  ask 
If  these  were  truly  men,  so  highly  stand 
Their  meekness,  patience,  courage,  over  ours ; 
Such  are  the  way-lights  flashing  in  the  past, 
With  gleams  which  cheer  the  darkness. 

And  of  these 
There  is  no  nobler  record  than  is  left 
Of  one  poor  burgher  of  the  Netherlands, 
Whose  story  I  have  brought  you  here  to-day. 

Buttressed  back  by  weary  labor  from  the  sea  which 

roars  around, 
In  a  land  where  dauntless  courage  hallowed  every 

foot  of  ground, 
Still    sec  urc    in    sturdy    freedom    are    the    walls    of 

Leydcn  found. 
3* 


30  WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 

Through  it  still  the  Rhine  stream  wanders,  and  the 

gardens  scent  the  air, 
And  the  tower  of  Hengist  lowers,  and  the  orchards 

blossom  fair ; 
While  the  river,  winding  slowly,   nets  the  houses 

everywhere. 

Round  it  still  the  traces  cluster  of  a  battle  nobly 

fought, 
Held  in  memory  by  tokens  which  a  patient  valor 

wrought, 
Kept  in  trust  for  future  ages,  sacred  unto  grateful 

thought. 

It  was  when  the  Spaniard  Valdez,  with  his  troops  in 
full  array, 

Marched  against  its  walls  and  turrets,  that  the  burgh- 
ers stood  at  bay, 

Choosing  rather  siege  and  famine,  than  the  loss  of 
right  to  pray. 

It  was  when  the  Spaniard  Valdez,  looking  over  lake 

and  town, 
Gathered  unto  him  his  army,  and,  to  win  it  for  the 

crown, 
Fronting   on   the   gates   of  Leyden   settled  all  his 

cannon  down. 

Then  the  Holland  blood  dashed  faster,  pulsing 
firmly  from  the  heart ; 


"LEYDEN,  A.  D.IS1A-'  3* 

Then  the  oath  went  up  to  Heaven,  Never  from  their 

rights  to  part ; 
Then  the  true  and  only  courage  into  life  began  to 

start. 

And  to  one  stout  burgomaster  (governor  by  right 

and  choice) 
Came  a  greeting  in  the  tumult,  even  like  an  angel's 

voice, 
Bidding  him  in  all  the  darkness  prove  his  fitness  to 

rejoice. 

Adrian  Van  Werf  of  Leyden,  fought  the  foes  that 

stirred  within, 
Conquering  the  evil  counsels  which  denied  that  he 

could  win  — 
Clinched  the  bolt  of  honest  purpose  as  the  people 

drove  it  in. 

Adrian  Van  Werf  of  Leyden,  with  his  trust  in  God 

and  right, 
Double-barred  the  city  portals  and  made  ready  for 

the  fight, 
Looking    for   a   glorious    morning   after    long   and 

dreary  night. 

Adrian  Van  Werf  of  Leyden,  seeing  that  which 
needs  must  come, 

Summoned  all  his  townsmen  round  him  at  the  beat- 
ing of  the  drum ; 

And  in  word  of  doubt  or  chiding  every  citizen  was 
dumb. 


32  WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 

So  the   message  flew  that  evening,  as   the  sunlight 

grew  more  pale, 
Borne  to  William,  Prince  of  Orange,  as  he  fretted 

in  his  mail, 
' 'For  three  months  we  hold  the  city.     Aid  us,  lest 

we  starve  and  fail !  ' ' 

We  only  know  ourselves  and  learn 
The  recess  hidden  in  the  dark, 
When,   lurid  through  the  night,  we  mark 

The  martyr-flames  and  torches  burn. 

Cast  on  our  fate,  we  rise  and  strive 
Unaided,  in  the  combat  grim, 
While  moon  and  stars  grow  sadly  dim, 

And  hope  but  just  remains  alive. 

Ah,  how  the  armor-joints  are  tried, 

How  fast  and  fell  the  sword-strokes  fall ! 
And  if  this  life  alone  were  all, 

It  were  as  pleasure  to  have  died. 

But  here  and  there  within  the  heart 

That  seems  the  feeblest,  burst  and  bloom 
Some  germs  of  courage  from  the  gloom 

Too  pure  for  any  human  art. 

To  stand  and  face  the  death  which  comes 
Inevitable,  and  be  true 
To  that  which  has  been  set  to  do, 

Amid  the  rattle  of  the  drums; 


"LEYDENt  A.  D.  1574."  ^ 

When  faith  in  man  has  failed,  when  he, 
In  whom  we  fix  our  firmest  trust, 
Yields  bitterly,  a  thing  of  dust, 

And  owns  his  purpose  may  not  be ; 

And  still  to  fight,  when  borne  above 
The  hostile  camp  fly  words  that  weep 
For  helpless  sympathy,  and  keep 

No  expectation  but  of  love ; 

This  is  to  be  a  man  indeed, 

And  this,  when  hope  is  undermined, 
Is  that  supporting  force  behind, 

Which  equals  the  impelling  need. 

But  men  may  fall  and  gently  pass 
From  toil  to  triumph  in  the  skies, 
As  some  soft  vapor  breaks  and  flies 

From  the  dimmed  surface  of  a  glass. 

And  so  they  fell  within  the  wall. 

Spared  by  the  sword  that  slew  without, 
They  died  with  no  brave  battle-shout  — 

Death's  famine  clutches  on  them  all. 

The  phantom  strode  along  the  street, 
Unwearied  with  his  horrid  task, 
And  men  forgot  at  length  to  ask 

For  those  whom  they  were  wont  to  meet. 


34  WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 

All  traffic  ceased,  the  loaded  wain 
Stood  useless  by  the  empty  stalls, 
For  they  who  fortified  the  walls 

Had  other  thoughts  than  those  of  gain. 

Death  was  as  near  as  Life.     It  slept 
Beside  the  warder  on  the  wall; 
It  bore  the  corpse,  without  a  pall, 

Unto  a  nameless  grave,  unwept. 

And  still  no  cheerful  message  came, 
To  tell  of  dikes  just  hewn  away ; 
Of  waters  seeking  for  their  prey ; 

For  week  by  week  was  still  the  same. 

This  awful  stillness  of  despair, 

This  dreadful  strength  of  iron  will, 
Held  firm  the  city  portals  still, 

And  kept  the  flag  aloft  in  air. 

But  eagerly  the  eyes  were  turned 

On  Hengist's  tower,  by  night  and  day, 
For  thence  a  watcher  gazed  alway, 

Whose  glances  on  the  distance  burned. 

And  if  the  booms  were  broken  down, 
And  if  the  fleet  should  yet  appear, 
He  would  proclaim,  in  words  of  cheer, 

The  speedy  succor  of  the  town. 


"  LEYDEX,  A.  D.  1574."  35 

Insultingly  the  Spaniards  threw 

Their  letters  on  a  cross-bow  shaft. 
Defiantly  the  burghers  laughed, 

And  hurled  their  challenge  forth  anew. 

While  Adrian  Van  Werf — as  pale 
As  any  spectre  from  the  tomb  — 
Stalked  ever  on  amid  the  gloom, 

And  bade  them  die,  but  never  fail. 

And  there  were  some  who  now  and  then 
Broke  up  the  silence  with  a  strain 
Of  music,  uttered  forth  with  pain, 

To  raise  the  spirit  of  the  men. 

And  women,  weak  and  faint  and  wan, 
Crept  forth  in  groups,  and  listened  there 
To  words  which  seemed  a  very  prayer, 

As  songs  like  this  came  floating  on :  — 

"If  that  our  Lord  be  for  us, 
Who  then  shall  triumph  o'er  us?" 

Ah,  but  in  doubt  and  anguish, 
Often  and  oft  we  languish. 

Dark  is  our  sky  with  vapors, 
Faint  are  these  feeble  tapers. 

Poor  are  our  lives  and  earthy, 
And  of  His  love  unworthy. 


36  WO  VEN  FROM  OLD  THREADS.  m 

Father,  be  Thou  beside  us, 
Comfort  and  stay  and  guide  us. 

Thou  who  art  ever  near  us, 
Shed  all  Thy  light  to  cheer  us. 

So  shall  we  never  perish, 
If  but  Thy  love  we  cherish ; 

And  each  upright  endeavor 
Thou  wilt  reward  forever. 

Or  else  a  poet  from  the  throng 
Retired  awhile  to  stay  his  grief, 
And  sought  and  found  a  sure  relief 

In  the  sweet  cadences  of  song. 

And  thus  he  blessed  his  magic  art, 
So  pure,  so  holy,  and  so  true; 
And  at  the  morning  in  the  dew, 

Forgot  the  pain  which  filled  his  heart :  — 

Three  brothers  passed  me  on  their  way 
Across  the  meadows  rich  and  green, 
To  where  the  distant  hills  were  seen 
This  summer  day. 

One  caught  his  carol  from  the  bird, 
And,  humming  as  he  walked  along, 
Poured  forth  upon  the  air  a  song, 
The  sweetest  heard. 


"  LEYDEN.A.D.  1574."  37 

Another  snatched  a  forest  leaf, 

And  on  it  graved  strange  woodland  things, 
And  clouded  it  with  flitting  wings, 
As  lair  and  brief. 


The  third  looked  on  them  both  and  smiled, 
Then  wove  the  melody  of  birds, 
And  rustic  pictures,  into  words 
As  pure  and  mild. 

And  while  they  moved  beyond  recall, 
I  said  within  my  heart  of  hearts, 
"They  well  have  learned  their  noble  arts; 
God  shield  them  all !  " 

But  there  was  one  who  heard  the  minstrel's  rhyme, 
Whose  faith  in  God  grew  lofty  and  sublime ; 
Who  trod  the  ramparts,  scanning  where  below 
Lay  the  white-tented  city  of  the  foe. 
Despair,  which  ruled  the  others,  had  not  shown 
That  she  could  make  this  sturdy  soul  her  own. 
The  people  met  him,  raising  their  thin  hands, 
With  squalid  faces,  querulous  demands ; 
And  mothers  lifted  babes  about  to  die 
To  meet  the  stern  old  burgomaster's  eye. 
They  cried  for  food,  they  threatened  to  unbar 
Those  gates  from  which  recoiled  the  tide  of  war. 
They  cursed  the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  the  State 
Which  left  them  thus,  unheeded,  to -their  fate. 
4 


38  WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 

They  clamored  loudest  for  their  share  of  bread, 
And  wondered  much  from  whence  they  should  be  fed. 
They  roused  from  stupor  when  they  saw  him  near, 
And  dinned  expostulations  in  his  ear. 
What !  would  he  have  them  perish  for  the  sake 
Of  one  poor  town,  one  single  shallow  lake  ? 

Until  his  spirit,  true  against  the  foe, 
Was  almost  broken  at  his  townsmen's  woe  ; 
And  yet  he  dared  not  call  the  Spaniard  in, 
Or  make  concession  to  the  Man  of  Sin. 
He  freely  offered  all  that  he  possessed, 
To  furnish  any  comfort  to  the  rest. 
He  bore  the  same  and  shared  alike  the  toil ; 
Aimed  the  great  gun  and  dug  the  heavy  soil ; 
Watched  through  the  night,  arose  betimes  to  pray, 
And  in  adventurous  forays  led  the  way. 
All  this  he  did,  but  never  would  unclose 
The  gates  of  Leyden  to  her  Romish  foes. 
Firm  in  the  right,  he  could  not  turn  aside 
For  pain,  for  passion,  or  for  human  pride. 

The  vivid  lightning  purines  the  air ; 

The  fiercest  tempest  brings  the  grass  to  life ; 
The  finest  fruit  repays  the  cruel  care 

Of  tortured  branches  and  the  primer's  knife. 

And  we  whom  God  has  set  amid  the  world, 
Who  bow  before  the  storm  and  dread  its  force, 

Whom  oftentimes  the  hurricane  has  hurled 
Beyond  the  limits  of  its  utmost  course ;  — 


"LEYDENt  A.D.  1574."  39 

We  who  are  scathed,  and  gnarled,  and  warped,  and 
wrenched ; 

Whose  fruit  the  canker-worm  of  pride  destroys  ; 
Around  whose  roots  the  fire  but  now  is  quenched  ; 
Who  dare  not  raise  green  temples  and  rejoice  ;  — 

We  who  are  all  unworthy  of  His  thought, 
Receive  of  Him  the  bounty  of  His  hand, 

And  with  our  inmost  fibres  are  enwrought 
The  sustenance  He  gives  us  from  the  land. 

He  will  not  suffer  us  to  fade  and  die 
If  we  but  reach  to  Him  in  feebleness. 

He  hears  our  faintest,  most  despairing  cry, 
And  holds  us  —  ready  even  then  to  bless. 

Ah,  coward  hearts  !  that  doubt  and  doubt  again, 
Because  His  way  is  not  the  way  we  seek, 

Because  the  purpose  of  the  Lord  is  plain, 
And  words  of  His  are  not  as  mortals  speak. 

What  then  are  we,  that,  circled  by  our  fate, 
We  should  adventure  other  ways  than  His, 

Should  strive  to  hew  us  out  another  gate 
To  realms  beyond,  avoiding  that  which  is? 

For  though  we  seem  at  times  shut  closely  in 
By  walls  of  Providence  which  hem  the  sky, 

We  have  no  warrant  that  our  cause  shall  win, 
If  we  permit  His  cause  to  pass  us  by. 


40  WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 

And  thus  was  he  of  Leyden,  for  he  knew 
No  other  guidance  than  had  led  him  on  — 

No  other  one  to  whom  his  heart  was  true ; 
No  other  service  but  of  God  alone. 

Thus  glided  by  the  days,  and  still  the  plague 

Stalked  hand-in-hand  with  famine  in  the  street  — 

A  fearful  phantom;  strange,  and  weird,  and  vague, 
At  which  men's  pulses  ceased  at  once  to  beat. 

Meanwhile  the  missives  from  the  Prince  could  give 
No  token  of  the  rising  of  the  waves ; 
Sick  unto  death  he  lay  at  Rotterdam, 
And  all  the  dikes  loomed  grimly  as  before. 
Unless  the  waters  rose  and  swept  the  plain 
There  was  no  shade  of  hope,  and  thus  anew 
The  people  round  their  leader  clamored  on. 
And  once  he  turned,  tall,  haggard,  dark  of  face, 
Noble  in  mien,  and  nobler  still  in  soul, 
And  men  could  not  endure  his  steady  eye. 
"What  would   you,    friends?"   he  cried.      "Why 

murmur  ye 
Because  we  keep  our  vows,  and  do  not  yield, 
As  yet,  unto  the  tyranny  of  Spain  ? 
This  fate  is  horrible ;  but  this  to  that 
Would  be  as  dust  in  balance.     I  that  speak 
Have  made  an  oath  to  hold  the  city  free, 
And  may  the  Lord,  to  whom  I  pledge  myself, 
Grant  strength  to  keep  my  oath.     I  can  but  die, 
And  die  but  once.     I  care  not  if  it  be 
By  you,  or  by  the  enemy,  or  God. 


»LE  YDE X,  A.D.  1574/'  4 1 

Whatever  may  befall,  it  moves  me  not; 

But  Leyden's  fate  is  dearer  than  my  own. 

Soon  we  shall  starve  and  perish,  if  relief 

Does  not  appear.      And  yet,  dishonored  death  — 

That  death  which  follows  from  dishonored  life  — 

Is  worse  than  famine.     Threat  me  if  you  like. 

Take  this  poor  life  —  I  leave  it  in  your  hands. 

Here  is  my  sword  —  plunge  this  within  my  breast — ■ 

Divide  my  body  for  your  share  of  food ; 

But,  while  I  live,  surrender  shall  not  be. 

Expect  it  not,  for  it  will  never  come." 

Famished  and  fainting  as  they  were,  they  rose 
In  tenfold  courage,  and  a  shout  went  up 
That  rang  defiance  to  the  Spanish  camp. 
And  then  once  more  ascending  tower  and  roof, 
And  peering  from  the  battered  battlements, 
They  hurled  renewed  invective  on  the  foe  ; 
Watching  afar  the  courses  of  the  streams, 
To  view  if  Father  Ocean  sent  them  aid. 

While  Adrian  Van  Werf  went  home  to  pray, 
And  laid  his  bitter  burden  on  the  Lord. 

There  was  seen  at  last,  one  morning, 
Long  months  from  the  first  assault, 

A  speck  high  up  in  the  azure  — 
A  bird  in  the  cloudless  vault. 

The  watchers  who  marked  it  flying, 
Perceived  that  it  came  from  sea, 
4* 


42  WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 

And  wondered,  as  well  at  its  swiftness,    . 
As  what  its  intent  might  be. 

Until,  as  it  speeded  nearer, 

They  waited,  eager  to  know 
The  news  from  the  fleet  in  North  Aa 

And  the  admiral,  good  Boisot. 

It  rose  high  over  the  Spaniards, 
And  sank,  with  a  gentle  flight, 

On  the  shoulder  of  one  who  had  lingered, 
And  watched  there  all  the  night. 

And  this  was  the  message  sent  them, 
That,  soon  as  the  tide  would  make, 

Boisot  would  slip  from  his  moorings, 
And  sail  for  the  inner  lake. 

Then  bells  rang  out  from  the  steeples, 
Then  men  kissed  men  on  the  street, 

Then  stern  old  burghers,  like  children, 
Climbed  up  to  look  for  the  fleet. 

Then  toil  was  forgotten  wholly, 
And  pain  and  despair  were  past, 

And  days  which  had  fled  were  as  nothing 
To  this  which  should  be  the  last. 

But  again  the  gathering  blackness 
Swept  down  and  obscured  their  way; 

And,  just  as  it  seemed  the  morning, 
There  came  no  answering  ray. 


"  LE  YDEN,  A.  D.  1574."  43 

For  the  waters  crept  on  but  slowly, 

As  if  but  to  mock  their  hope; 
While  steadily  fixed  in  waiting 

Were  the  troops  of  the  angry  Pope. 

And  William  of  Orange,  faithful 
To  them,  and  to  God,  and  right, 

Found  the  brave  Boisot  unable 
To  sail  or  commence  the  fight. 

Till,  suddenly  from  the  fastness 
Where  tempests  are  wont  to  hide, 

A  great  wind,  full  from  the  ocean, 
Drove  up  with  the  rising  tide. 

And  then,  borne  on  by  its  current 

Through  the  dikes  it  had  broken  down, 

Boisot  and  his  tried  companions 
Dashed  forward  to  help  the  town. 

In  the  blackest  of  the  midnight  came  the  challenge 

of  the  foe, 
And  the  waters  flamed  in  answer  with  the  cannon's 

sudden  glow, 
And  amid  the  sunken  houses,  and  above  the  sunken 

plain, 
In  the  thickest  of  the  darkness  fell  fast  the  leaden  rain. 

Still    forward  pressed  the  vessels  with   their   fiery 

Zealand  crew. 
Bursting  down  the  dikes  before  them  as  the  wind 

and  tide  leaped  through; 


44  WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 

While  the  keen  eyes  of  the  pilots,  through  the 
meshes  of  the  storm, 

Caught  now  and  then  direction  from  some  well- 
remembered  form. 

And   the    oars  pulsed  true    and    grandly,  and   the 

waters  flaked  and  flew 
In  wakes  of  phosphorescence  from  the  rowing  of 

the  crew; 
And  they  saw  each   others'    faces   in  the   cannon's 

fitful  light, 
While  each  prow  pierced  truly  onward  like  a  wedge 

against  the  night. 

And  on  they  rushed  unheeding,  shouldered  forward 

now  and  then, 
When  they  grounded  in  the  shallows,  by  the  muscles 

of  the  men ; 
One  gallant  purpose  guiding,  one  faith  in  God  and 

right, 
One  high  and  bold  endeavor  to  die  or  win  the  fight. 

And  Leyden  watched,  all  trembling  — so  strong  the 

feeling  ran  — 
Lest  this  might  prove  a  conflict  too  hard  for  any 

man. 
And  Valdez  watched,  with  terror  —  for  the  waters 

deepened  fast  — 
Lest  saints,  and  ground,  and  army  should  all  desert 

at  last. 


"LEYDEN,A.D.\S1±"  45 

All  night  Boisot  fought  bravely,  and  in  the  early  day 
He  saw  the  routed  Spaniards  as  they  hurried  from 

his  way  ; 
Then  full  before  the  fortress,  which  stayed  him  last 

of  all, 
He  dropped  his  anchors,  resting  till  the  night  began 

to  fall. 

And  to  them  who  were  in  the  city 
Van  Werf  spoke  burning  things, 

Of  the  glory  of  noble  daring, 
And  the  victory  valor  brings. 

Till  the  thin,  long  hands  clutched  tighter 
Their  hold  upon  sword  and  pike, 

And  they  waited  only  his  summons 
To  bid  them  where  to  strike. 

And  the  night  came  down  with  noises 

So  full  of  an  awful  dread, 
That  men  seemed  visibly  fighting 

With  the  army  of  the  dead. 

For  the  city  wall  fell  outward, 
And  crashed  with  a  horrid  din, 

And  the  sentinels  on  the  ramparts 
Alarmed  their  friends  within. 

And  lights  were  seen  in  the  distance 
To  flicker,  now  here,  now  there, 

As  if  ghosts  were  out  in  the  midnight 
And  wandered  in  upper  air. 


46  WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 

Till  the  night,  so  long  with  its  terror, 
Passed  on,  and  the  streaks  of  gray 

High  over  the  eastern  heaven 
Declared  it  another  day. 

And  soon  it  dawned,  across  the  level  sweep 
Of  plains  once  more  surrendered  to  the  deep. 
The  admiral  looked  out  with  eager  glance, 
Watching  his  fittest  moment  to  advance. 
But  all  was  still  —  a  silence  as  of  death 
Left  the  broad  mere  without  a  passing  breath. 
Amazed,  he  wondered  if  an  evil  fate 
Had  helped  the  Spaniards  through  the  city's  gate ; 
And  reasoned  much,  and  sickened  with  the  fear 
That  all  had  failed  when  succor  was  so  near. 

At  last  a  little  boy  was  seen  to  stand 
Upon  the  fort  and  beckon  with  his  hand, 
And,  wading  through  the  shallow  lake,  a  man 
Proclaimed  the  end  of  Valdez'  haughty  plan. 
The  foe  had  fled  by  night,  and  left  no  more 
Their  hated  presence  on  the  trampled  shore, 
And  nothing  now  was  needed  but  to  bring 
Provision  to  the  starved  and  famishing. 

Again  the  sailors  tore  their  vessels  through 
With  steady  muscles  and  a  stroke  as  true . 
The  city  gates  swung  open,  and  the  crowd 
Lined  the  canals,  and  shouted  long  and  loud. 

Then  Adrian  Van  Werf,  with  hands  upraised, 
Gave  Him  the  glory,  who  alone  is  praised ; 


«LEYDENX  A.IK  1574."  47 

And  good  Boisot,  approaching  from  the  fleet, 
Headed  the  great  procession  up  the  street. 

Fierce  Zealanders  were  there,  whose  swarthy  arms 
Were  scarred  by  sword-cuts  and  with  sailor-charms ; 
Burghers,  whose  faces,  blackened  by  the  fight, 
Yet  showed  their  deadly  pallor  in  the  light ; 
Sailors  and  soldiers,  women  gaunt  and  weak, 
With  hollow  eyes  and  sadly  furrowed  cheek  — 
As  if  their  tears,  like  swollen  streams,  had  worn 
Into  their  souls  the  sorrow  they  had  borne ; 
And  magistrates  commingled  with  the  throng; 
And  little  children  tottering  along. 

These,  with  a  single  heart  of  faith  and  love, 
Entered  the  church  to  render  thanks  to  God. 
And  swelling  upward  from  the  thousands  there, 
Rose  one  great  anthem  of  their  gratitude  ; 
Which,  in  its  rapture,  echoed  far  and  near, 
Smote  the  stained  windows,  proved  the  fretted  work 
Through  the  carved  ceiling,  and  the  noble  psalm 
Bore  up  all  thoughts  in  wondrous  melody. 
The  deep-toned  music  thundered  down  the  nave, 
Gathering  the  thankfulness  of  every  soul 
Into  itself,  and  swept  aloft  to  God. 


And  as  they  sang,  and  as  the  organ-notes 
Melted  on  high  in  waves  of  harmony, 
The  overflooded  gates  of  tears  gave  way. 
The  music  ceased  ;  for  this  was  more  than  sound 
Could  ever  fathom  —  deeper  than  the  praise 
Which  mortal  lips  can  utter. 


48  WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 

Only  then, 
When  tongues  are  loosed,  when  all  our  rapture  here 
Can  pass  beyond  the  boundaries  of  art ; 
When  we  shall  be  transformed  to  perfectness, 
From  such  imperfect  efforts  of  our  lives  — 
Aye,  only  then,  when  faith  is  lost  in  sight, 
When  these  poor  eyes  shall  see  and  fully  know 
The  manifold  omniscience  which  upholds  — 
Then,  only  then,  with  voices  tuned  of  God, 
With  hands  whose  skill  the  angels  may  not  win, 
Can  we  attain  to  symphonies  divine, 
And  true  thanksgiving  to  our  Lord  and  King. 

Until  that  time,  that  holy,  happy  time, 
Our  loftiest  anthems  cannot  speak  our  love ; 
And  we,  as  they,  can  only  bow  and  cry : 
"Our  hearts  Thou   knowest.     Take   our  worthless 
praise." 

And  none  bent  there  of  all,  whose  bosom  heaved 
With  such  sublime  emotion  unto  God, 
As  that  grand  burgher  of  the  Netherlands, 
With  whom  his  duty  was  the  guiding-star. 
For  he  had  wrestled  strongly  with  himself, 
Had  beaten  down  all  pride  and  self-conqeit, 
Had  fought  the  fight,  and  now  this  final  day 
Had  crowned  with  glory  his  heroic  life. 


ON  THE    WAY.  49 

ON  THE  WAY. 

"  Tendimus  in  Latium." — Virgil. 

The  blue  wave  curls  about  the  prow, 
The  light  breeze  ripples  o'er  the  sea, 

The  clouds  sweep  gently  o'er  the  brow 
Of  fair  Trinacrian  Sicily ; 

And  yonder  lies  the  yellow  sand 

Which  girds  the  promised  Latian  land. 

Brave  hearts,  across  the  stormy  deep 

You  held  the  faith  you  pledged  of  old  ; 

For  you  the  gods  in  waiting,  keep 

Rich  lands  and  herds  and  sunny  gold ; 

For  yonder  gleams  the  yellow  sand, 

Our  fated  home,  the  Latian  land. 

There  sterner  walls  than  Troy  shall  rise, 
And  people  strong  in  arms  shall  dwell, 

And,  canopied  by  happy  skies, 

For  us  and  ours  shall  all  be  well. 

Gleam  brighter,  then,  O  yellow  sand  ! 

Come  speedily,  O  Latian  land  ! 

O  promised  rest !   O  end  of  toil ! 

O  country  sought  for  long  in  vain  ! 
Soon  shall  we  reach  thy  favored  soil, 

Soon  find  the  guerdon  of  our  pain  j 
For  nearer  seems  that  yellow  sand, 
And  nearer  grows  the  Latian  land. 
5 


50 


WOVEN  FROM  OLD    THREADS. 


No  more  shall  dread  of  danger  come; 

No  more  shall  threats  of  storm  increase 
Within  that  sacred,  destined  home, 

At  last,  at  last  we  rest  in  peace, 
Beyond  the  belt  of  yellow  sand, 
In  that  oft-promised  Latian  land. 


WOVEN   IN   WAR-TIME. 


RED,  WHITE,  AND  BLUE. 
1862. 

WHITE  snow  upon  the  field  and  fold, 
Upon  the  hills,  across  the  wood,    - 
Where  the  strong  oak-leaves  long  have  stood 
Against  the  winter's  frost  and  cold. 

Blue  sky  above  them,  looking  down 

Where  whitened  slopes  and  meadows  lay 
With  promise  of  such  glorious  day 

As  never  tarries  with  the  town. 

Red  blood  of  those  who  fought  and  fell 
To  guard  our  cherished  flag  from  wrong  ; 
Of  whom  we  say,  ''Their  vigil  long 

Has  closed  at  last,  and  all  is  well!  " 


Blue  sky  still  spreading  calmly  o'er; 

White  snow  now  reddened  from  the  fight, 
And  one,  upon  the  captured  height, 

Whose  stiffened  limbs  shall  move  no  more. 
5*  53 


54  WOVEN  IN  WAR-TIME. 

THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  SALAMIS. 

"  Cras  ingens  iterabimus  aequor." 

Who  fears  when  Teucer  leads  the  way  ? 

Our  realms  are  wider  than  we  know; 
And  reaching  onward  through  the  day, 

Our  hope  and  courage  stronger  grow. 

Who  fears?     The  sea  is  calm  and  still; 

Far  worse  than  this  we  once  endured. 
O  comrades,  tried  by  every  ill, 

Why  faint  when  all  is  just  assured  ? 

Old  Salamis  behind  us  stands ; 

We  barred  ourselves  her  open  gates; 
We  took  the  venture  in  our  hands 

To  journey  where  the  future  waits. 

Not  falsely  has  Apollo  said ; 

Not  falsely  came  the  Delphic  voice ; 
We  left  the  dying  with  their  dead, 

And  all  the  gods  approve  our  choice. 

Old  Salamis  may  stand  alone ; 

Her  young,  heroic  life  is  here  ; 
Her  walls  shall  crumble  stone  by  stone, 

Her  people  fail  because  of  fear : 


THE    OLD   AND    THE  NEW  SALAMIS.       55 

But  Salamis  on  other  shores  — 

New  Salamis,   in  pride  shall  rise ; 
Brave  hearts  shall  guard  her  through  the  wars, 

And  raise  her  honor  to  the  skies. 

Secure,  in  prophecy  of  good, 

We  may  advance  while  others  fear, 

And  conquer  that  which  once  withstood, 
By  faithful  sword  and  trusty  spear. 

Crown  us,  O  hope  of  years  to  be  ! 

Crown  us,  whom  all  the  gods  shall  keep 
For,  strong  because  of  Liberty, 

We  shall  attempt  the  mighty  deep. 

1865. 


N^d 


$6  WOVEN  IN  WAR-TIME. 

ON  THE  HIGH  SEAS. 
1865. 

How  slowly  moved  these  warning  years, 
And  we  as  slow  to  heed  their  voice ; 
Though,  while  they  seemed  to  say,  "Rejoice!" 

They  left  us  legacies  of  tears. 

We  walked  upon  the  quaking  crust 

Above  the  fiery  lava-stream; 

We  walked  in  peace,  as  in  a  dream, 
Secure  and  careless  in  our  trust. 

We  heard  beneath  our  very  feet 

The  chafing  of  the  burning  flow; 

We  felt  the  surging  to  and  fro, 
The  ceaseless,  steady  throb  and  beat. 

We  knew  it  not,  and  yet  we  trod 
Upon  a  great  imprisoned  soul, 
Which  strove  against  unjust  control, 

Whose  agonies  were  known  of  God. 

Our  eyes  were  dim  because  of  sin, 

Our  ears  were  stopped  because  of  crime, 
Till,  in  the  fulness  of  His  time, 

The  feeble  barrier-crust  brake  in. 

We  met  the  surges  face  to  face, 

Those  throbbings  which  had  sapped  our  strength. 


OX  THE  HIGH  SEAS.  $7 

At  length  we  learned  our  sin  —  at  length 
We  stood  in  helpless,   mute  disgrace. 

And  then  we  called  aloud  on  God, 

Whose  ear  had  heard  the  bondman's  cry, 
Up  through  whose  deep,  unfathomed  sky 

Had  pierced  the  echoes  of  the  rod. 

We  called  on  Him,  but  not  aright : 
Still  in  our  pride,   we  bowed  not  yet; 
We  reached  no  depth  of  true  regret ; 

We  struggled  blindly  in  the  night. 

But  at  the  last  there  grew  a  prayer, 
Out  of  our  grieving  hearts  expressed, 
For  hope  in  trouble,  and  for  rest 

Amid  these  billows  of  despair. 

He  heard  us,  and  we  see  the  day 
When,   Right  is  rising  over  Wrong, 
When,   from  that  night,  so  dark  and  long, 

The  clouds  are  slowly  borne  away. 

He  holds  the  floods  within  His   hand, 
He  stays  the  fire's  destructive  wrath, 
And  opens  us  once  more  a  path 

Unto  a  safe  and  pleasant  land. 

God  help  us  still! — we  ask  no  more; 
For  His  are  all  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  His  shall  be  the  glory,  when 

We  reach  at  last  the  destined  shore. 


58  WOVEN  IN  WAR-TIME. 

THE  FAITH  OF  THE  HOUR. 

1864. 

In  meekness  where  we  once  were  proud. 

In  faith  where  once  our  trust  was  small, 
We  look  beyond  the  stormy  cloud, 

And  honor  Him  who  gave  us  all. 

For  so  we  learn.     The  moments  teach 
Deep  things  of  God,  half  understood; 

And  whisper  gently,  each  to  each, 
Of  Law  and  Right  and  Brotherhood. 

We  stand  to-day  more  closely  knit 

By  one  great  feeling,  broad  and  grand  — 

That  men  of  every  blood  are  fit 
For  equal  rank  in  Freedom's  land. 

All  else  was  easier  than  this  — 

To  look  beneath  the  husk  of  things, 

To  see,  below  the  chrysalis, 

The  moving  of  the  prisoned  wings. 

We  only  held  our  selfish  aims ; 

We  only  heard,  but  did  not  feel, 
When,  rising  up  through  godless  claims, 

Came  that  unpitied,  faint  appeal. 


THE   FAITH  OF  THE   HOUR.  59 

Till,  guided  as  we  knew  not  how, 
The  scales  of  blindness  fell  away, 

And,  high  above  the   nation,  now 

Shines  on  the  dawn  of  Freedom's  day. 

For  so  we  purge  ourselves  from  crime  ; 

And,  so,  our  fathers'  joy  obtain, 
That,  through  this  second  troublous  time 

Victorious,  we  shall  pass  again. 

We  wait  for  words  of  daily  cheer; 

And,  as  they  echo  through  the  land, 
With  purer  hearts  we  cease  from  fear  — 

We  know  the  end  is  near  at  hand. 


60  WOVEN  IN  WAR-TIME. 

RICHMOND! 

April  3d,  1865. 

Bell  for  bell  gives  answer  proudly 
Through  the  mellow  April  sun, 

Flag  for  flag  waves  back  a  token 
Of  the  joy  for  what  is  done, 

For  the  long,  long  watch  is  over, 
And  the  victory  is  won. 

Let  the  echoes,   then,   in  triumph 
Ring  throughout  the  country  side ; 

Let  the  happy  greetings  beacon 
Over  hill  and  valley  wide, 

For  they  stand  as  conquered  foemen  — 
They  who  God   and  Right  defied. 

Such  the  crown  He  gives  to  patience 
Who  has  bid  us  pray  and  wait; 

Such  the  glorysthat  He  grants  us, 
When  we  triumph  over  Hate ; 

Such  the  promise  of  the  future, 
Through  the  half-unfolded  gate. 

"Richmond   ours!"     We  look  beyond  it, 
To  the  years  which  yet  shall  be ; 

To  the  days  of  peace  and  plenty  — 
To  the   days  when  all  are   free  ; 

To  the  time  when  Human  Bondage 
Shall  be  Human  Liberty. 


RICHMOND  I  6 1 

Honored   be  a  Higher  Wisdom  — 
One  above  has  heard  our  prayer, 

One  above  has  marked  our  sorrow 
Through  the  battle-clouded  air; 

One  above  has  been  beside  us  — 
Helped  our  weakness  everywhere. 

And  to   Him  this  day  be  glory  — 
To  His  name  be  songs  of  praise ; 

Unto  Him  be  richest  blessings 

Which  our  grateful  hearts  can  raise; 

Let  Him  triumph  who  has  brought  us 
To  this  best  of  all  our  days. 

For  His  hand  has  led   us  onward 

Underneath  the  stormy  sky, 
And  in  all  our  darkest  moments 

We  have  fought  beneath  His  eye; 
While,   with  tenderness  and  mercy, 

He  has  watched  us  from  on  high. 

Ring  the  bell,  and  swing  the  banner  — 

Let  the  music  rise  and  swell, 
Over  hill  and  valley  passing, 

By  the  brook  and  through  the  dell ; 
Sweep  the  chorus  gladly  onward  — 

God  be  praised,  for  all  is  well ! 


62  WOVEN  IN  WAR-TIME. 


A  MEMORY. 
1866. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  in  serried  rank, 
Stern  and  calm,  how  the  faces  run, 

As  we  follow  the  glint,  from  flank  to  flank, 

Of  musket-barrel  and  bayonet-shank, 
Under  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun  ! 

Comrade  by  comrade  upon  the  ground, 

Mown  and  reaped  by  the  dashing  shot, 
With  a  flash  of  trappings,  amid  the  mound, 
From  those  who  suffer  without  a  sound  — 
Shiver  with  anguish,  but  own  it  not. 

These  are  the  ones  who,  without  regret, 

Gave  their  lives  for  their  country's  cause ; 
Who  are  ours  as  stars  in  our  banner  set  — 
Who  died,  but  whose  names   are  our  watchwords 
yet  — 
Martyrs  for  freedom  and  truth  and  laws. 


DECORATION  DAY.  63 

DECORATION  DAY. 

1869. 

After  the  rain  when  the  clouds  have  broken, 
After  the  gray  when  the  blue  appears, 

Trustiest  hands  have  brought  a  token, 
Sacred  because  of  bloody  years. 

Whether  they  sleep  in  sun  or  shadow, 
Vanquished  by  long  or  sudden  pain, 

Over  their  graves  on  hill  and  meadow 
Glory  of  flowers  is  strewn  again. 

Under  the  oak-leaves  strong  and  tender, 
Meshed  with  the  golden  threads  of  light, 

Praises  arise  for  each  defender, 
Casketed  here  because  of  right. 

Open,   O  skies,  with  swift  libation, 
Now  that  the  past  is  gathered  up: 

These  are  the  proofs  of  our  probation  — 
These   who  have  drained  the  bitter  cup. 

Whether  they  fell  in  siege  or  sally, 
Smitten  by  night  or  pierced  at  noon, 

Here  they  have  passed  within  that  valley, 
Destined  to  Death  —  yet  sadly  soon  ! 


64  WOVEN  IN  WAR-TIME. 

Seed  of  the  nation's  hope  and  glory, 

Thus  have  we  helped  your  growth  to-day, 

Hearing  and  telling  all  the  story, 
Fairer  than  gifts  which  fade  away. 

What  though  the  harvest  dimly  beckons 
Out  of  the  promise  of  the  sod, 

Faith  shall  be  ours,   and  care,  which  reckons 
Love  to  our  land  as  next  to  God. 


WOVEN   FROM   CHURCH   PATTERNS. 


SABRICIUS. 

AT  Antioch,  where  first  the  holy  name 
Of  Christ  upon  His  true  disciples  came  — 
Where  they  were  Christians  who  had  learned  to  live 
In  higher  pleasure  than  this  world  can  give  — 
There  dwelt  two  men  who,  by  a  common  tie, 
Were  bound  to  serve  the  truth  and  hate  the  lie. 
Not  long  ago  the  clouds  beneath  the  blue 
Broke  wide  apart  to  let  the  Saviour  through  ; 
Not  long  ago  the  steadfast  eyes  of  men 
Gazed  upward  after  Him  who  comes  again : 
Nor  were  there  many  years  since  some  could  tell 
Of  Him  by  whom  they  saw  the  sick  made  well. 


The  fervor  of  His  pure  and  perfect  word 
Yet  rang  in  ears  which  even,  as  they  heard, 
Recalled  how  like,  in  all  His  mighty  plan, 
Were  the  instructions  of  the  Son  of  Man  ; 
How  constantly  above  the  surging  crowd 

with  accents  clear  and  loud, 
67 


That  warning  voii  e 


68        WOVEN  FROM  CHURCH  PATTERNS. 

Had  cried  "Repent !  "  and  bidden  all  obey 
Before  the  terrors  of  a  final  day ; 
And  how,  as  constantly,  that  silver  tongue 
Had  charmed  the  tempers  of  the  old  and  young, 
And  cried,  "Believe  !  because  the  Father's  love 
Hath  sent  salvation  to  you  from  above  !  ' ' 
And  thus  these  messages  were  borne  along 
On  sacred  lives  and  on  the  wings  of  song. 
"Repent !  "  was  written  in  each  holy  book; 
"  Believe  !  "   shone  forth  in  every  loving  look ) 
And,  simply  with  this  trust  before  their  eyes, 
Men  left  the  earth  and  walked  in  Paradise. 
Before  such  souls  the  boundary  sky  swept  back 
On  either  side,  and  showed  a  shining  track, 
And  the  hard  way  of  daily  toil  and  care 
Became  the  golden  street  of  upper  air. 

The  faith  which  held  such  glorious  reward 
Possessed  those  watchers  for  the  coming  Lord. 
They  lived  sweet  lives  of  innocence  and  peace ; 
They  saw  sin  languish  and  the  church  increase ; 
They  held  themselves  unworthy  at  the  best 
To  wear  the  garments  of  a  wedding  guest, 
And,  cleaving  closer  to  this  central  thought, 
The  praise  of  Christ  above  all  praise  they  sought. 

Among  them,  thus  abiding  in  content, 
These  two  were  seen,  whose  willing  footsteps  went 
Day  after  day  where  God  was  found  apart 
By  them  of  humble  and  of  contrite  heart. 


SABRICIUS.  69 

The  one,  Sabricius,  at  the  altar's  side 
Spake  of  that  Jesus  who  was  crucified. 
His  words  were  tender  as  the  tale  was  told, 
Which  still  is  new,  nor  ever  shall  grow  old  ; 
His  hand,  as  though  it  held  a  flaming  sword, 
Defied  the  persecutors  of  his  Lord  ; 
He  stood  like  Peter,  seeming  to  declare, 
14  Where'er  thou  goest,  thou  shalt  find  me  there." 
Albeit  some,  whose  heads  were  snowy  white, 
Said,  "  They  that  threaten  do  not  always  fight." 
And  ofttimes  solemnly  were  heard  to  say, 
44  It  was  not  thus  in  the  Apostles'  day." 

The  other  was  Nicephorus  —  a  man 
Benignant,  and  in  whom  all  virtues  ran 
Like  streams  together,  fresh  and  full  and  strong  — 
Rivers  of  God  serenely  borne  along. 
No  priest  was  he  —  no  waiting  ears  drank  in 
His  splendid  sentences  concerning  sin  ; 
Xo  neophyte,  with  sympathetic  trust, 
Craved  benediction,  kneeling  in  the  dust; 
No  glory  of  a  sacerdotal  state 
Had  made  him  distant,  cold,  and  separate; 
He  only  strove,  with  many  prayers  and  tears, 
To  win  approval  fur  his  earthly  years. 

They  met  in  duties  of  their  daily  lot, 
And,  most  of  all,  in  some  secluded  spot 
Where  poor,  faint  voices  clamored  after  bread, 
Or  where  they  raised  some  dying  sinner's  head, 


70        WOVEN  FROM  CHURCH  PATTERNS. 

That  he  might  see  by  faith  an  open  gate, 
And  enter  in  before  it  grew  too  late. 
Thus  meeting,  both  with  mutual  esteem 
Beheld  each  other  through  a  common  theme; 
Yet  did  Sabricius  now  and  then  disclose 
The  presence  in  him  of  our  fiercest  foes : 
Pride,  and  the  love  of  self,  and  even  more 
Trampled  across  his  heart  and  bruised  it  sore ; 
And,  save  for  duties  of  his  priestly  place, 
The  homes  of  sadness  had  not  seen  his  face. 
But  yet  his  spirit  took  a  strange  delight 
In  holding  him  severely  to  the  right, 
And  never,  though  his  soul  was  greatly  stirred, 
Were  these  his  inward  tumults  overheard. 


Not  so  Nicephorus.     For  him  no  rule 
Of  fear  was  known  within  the  Saviour's  school; 
Love  kept  his  goings  out  and  comings  in ; 
Love  shielded  him  from  the  assaults  of  sin ; 
Love  sent  him  to  the  hungry  and  the  faint ; 
Love  bade  him  help  the  much-encumbered  saint; 
And,  wheresoever  any  priests  had  call, 
They  found  Nicephorus  before  them  all. 
Some  angel  of  the  Lord  with  speech  divine 
Had  doubtless  helped  him  by  a  secret  sign  — 
For  what  are  these  our  instincts  to  do  good, 
Save  thoughts,  which  in  the  Father's  presence  stood? 

The  years  passed  onward.    They  of  whom  I  speak 
Were  faithful  still  to  all  the  worn  and  weak; 


SABRICIUS.  J\ 

Until  at  last  —  I  know  not  why  or  how  — 
There  came  a  cloud  upon  Sabricius'  brow: 
Nicephorus  aggrieved  him  —  how  or  why, 
The  elder  chroniclers  know  more  than  I. 
Sufficient  is  it  that  the  sword  of  wrath 
Clove,  as  it  always  does,  a  sudden  path ; 
And  they,  whose  prayers  had  often  risen  up 
With  arms  entwined  —  for  whom  a  single  cup 
Held  the  red  wine  of  sacramental  joy  — 
Whose  feet  were  foremost  in  the  same  employ  — 
Went  divers  ways,  and  all  the  church  beheld 
One  of  those  scandals  which  are  seldom  quelled. 

Then  once  again  upon  the  Christians  came 
That  devil's  vengeance  of  the  sword  and  flame. 
The  woodman  Death,  delighted  with  his  toil, 
Hewed  God's  good  trees  quite  level  with  the  soil. 
The  church  lost  heart,  as  here  and  there  it  saw 
Another  victim  of  Valerian's  law  ; 
For  he  was  emperor,  and  day  by  day 
He  broke  the  stoutest  of  the  saints  away. 

Sabricius  still,  as  yet  unpacified, 
Left  patience,  favor,  pardon  —  all  denied. 
He  spurned  Nicephorus  so  much  the  more 
As  he  sought  entrance  at  the  bolted  door. 
He  would  not  hear  nor  heed  that  holy  man, 
Seeking  forgiveness  as  the  day  began ; 
He  would  not  see  nor  save  that  patient  one, 
Seeking  forgiveness  with  the  setting  sun. 


7  2        WOVEN  FROM  CHURCH  PATTERNS. 

He  hardened  through  the  precepts  of  a  creed 
Wherein  he  often  taught  himself  to  read 
The  Gospel  as  the  Law,  and  where,  instead 
Of  "  giving  to  thine  enemy  his  bread," 
He  saw  enrolled,  in  ragged,  lightning  lines, 
The  harsh,  sad  justice  of  the  ancient  signs, 
That  "  eye  for  eye  and  tooth  for  tooth  must  pay, 
And  he  be  stoned  who  would  not  thus  obey." 
No  persecution  stayed  his  burning  zeal, 
Or  closed  his  lips  from  warning  and  appeal. 
He  rather  loved,  with  look  and  speech  austere, 
To  cry  aloud  in  that  most  awful  year. 
Nor  did  it  seem  to  any  who  observed 
His  steady  valor  that  he  ever  swerved 
From  right  and  truth  and  peace,  and  thus  at  last 
A  tacit  verdict  favorably  passed : 
And  good  Nicephorus,  on  either  side 
Beset,  and  with  all  pardon  still  denied, 
Went  broken-hearted  where  a  few  remained 
Who  could  not  fancy  that  his  soul  was  stained. 

The  persecution  burned  with  keener  light 
Amid  the  gloom  of  spiritual  night; 
And  now,  while  serving  at  the  altar's  side, 
They  seized  Sabricius,  full  of  priestly  pride. 
Indignantly  he  treated  any  thought 
That  piety  so  perfect  could  be  bought. 
He  called  their  idols  blocks  of  wood  and  stone ; 
Their  emperor,  a  pigmy  on  a  throne ; 
Their  laws,  the  breath  of  hell ;  their  threats  and  rage, 
The  rant  of  actors  on  a  creaking  stage. 


SABRICJUS.  73 

All  this  and  more  he  shouted  for  the  throng 
To  understand,  as  he  was  dragged  along. 


Thus  speaking  in  the  haughtiness  of  pride, 
He  turned  and  saw  the  swaying  crowd  divide, 
And,  pressing  through,  Nicephorus  draw  near 
Unhesitating  and  without  a  fear. 
Once  more  he  pleaded  for  forgiving  grace 
Before  they  reached  that  last  and  dreadful  place, 
Where  Roman  fagots,  or  the  Roman  sword, 
Would  send  the  martyr  to  his  martyred  Lord ; 
And  once  again,  with  hard  and  bitter  speech, 
Was  met  by  doctrines  which  the  Rabbis  teach. 
But  for  that  one  whose  prayers  and  tears  in  vain 
Besought  the  favor  which  they  ought  to  gain 
Not  even  this  sufficed,  and  still  he  came 
Close  after  him  with  penitence  and  shame. 
The  people  followed,  hearing  now  and  then 
This  strangest  conference  of  Christian  men, 
Until  it  ceased,  because  they  both  could  see 
That  on  that  spot  the  end  of  earth  must  be. 

Then  swiftly,  from  the  post  they  held  so  well, 
Sabricius'  pride  and  haughty  temper  fell. 
His  fear,  as  though  in  very  pangs  of  death, 
Caught  at  his  heart,  and  stopped  his  steady  breath. 
He  glared,  grew  white,  and,  smitten  with  dismay, 
Was  ready  next  to  sell  his  soul,  and  say 
That  Jove  was  greater  than  Jehovah,  or 
That  He  was  but  a  man  whom  Mary  bore. 
7 


74        WOVEN  FROM  CHURCH  PATTERNS. 

Amazed,  Nicephorus  again  besought 
The  failing  priest  to  battle  as  he  ought ; 
But  still,  alas  !  in  vain;   for  sudden  dread 
Had  left  him  spiritless  and  nearly  dead. 
Wherefore  with  speed  he  turned  himself  about, 
Erect  and  calm,  delivered  from  his  doubt, 
And  bade  the  prefect  take  him  in  the  stead 
Of  this  his  enemy,  and,  smiling,  said, 
"  Perhaps  our  God,  if  he  shall  longer  live, 
Will  grant  forgiveness  as  I  now  forgive; 
And  he  who  spurned  the  sinner  from  his  side 
May  gain  that  pardon  which  he  once  denied." 

A  moment  more,  and  then  a  martyr's  crown 
Was  on  the  head  which  bowed  so  bravely  down ; 
A  moment  more,  and  that  hard  heart  of  years 
Had  broken  forth  in  true  and  humble  tears ; 
A  moment  more,  and  then  there  went  away 
One  who  took  hold  on  Christ  and  learned  to  pray. 


LAURENTIUS*  75 


LAURENTIUS. 

This  is  the  story  which  is  told 

Of  the  Church  of  Christ  in  days  of  old, 

Before  its  purpose  was  warped  and  bent 

Out  of  its  first  and  best  intent. 

This  is  the  legend,  strange  and  true, 

Of  one  who  did  what  he  found  to  do. 

In  Decius'   time,   when  o'er  the  land 
The  persecuting  flame  was  fanned, 
The  good  Laurentius,  of  Rome, 
Abode  in  peacefulness  at  home. 
The  care  was  his,   each  Sabbath  day, 
To  bear  the  church's  gifts  away, 
And,  through  the  coming  week,  secure 
These  benefactions  to  the  poor. 
Daily  he  gave,   and  ever  fed 
The  hungry  with  their  daily  bread  ; 
And  those  whom   others  had  denied 
His  Christian  charity  supplied. 
He  raised  no  mansion  to  allure 
The  thronging  myriads  of  poor ; 
But  to  the  prefect  one  had  showed 
What  blessings  from   his  bounty  flowed. 
How  freely,   yet  how  fairly,  fell 
Those  heavenly  guerdons  none  may  tell 
Until,   with  those  who  walk  with  God, 
The  footsteps  of  our  faith  have  trod. 


7  6         WOVEN  FROM  CHURCH  PATTERNS. 

But  now  the  emperor's  decree 
Went  forth   and   traversed  Italy, 
That  there  should  be  the  strictest  search 
To  gather  money  from  the  Church  ; 
And,   through  the  deacons,   to  extort 
Whatever  might  adorn  the  court. 
Praetor  and  sedile  then  began 
With  speed  to  carry  out  the  plan  ; 
And  robbing  thus,  of  course  retained 
Their  portion  of  the  plunder  gained. 

Most  of  all  else  one  prefect's  eye 
Was  loth  to   pass   Laurentius  by; 
Not  any  deacon  seemed  more  free 
In  charitable  works  than  he. 
To  seize  the  hoard  from  which  he  spent 
Was  surely  what  his  lord  had  meant. 
Honor  and  wealth  and  all  the  band 
Of  high  preferments  were  at  hand, 
If  only  one  might   prove   his  zeal 
As  prompt  to  plan  and  apt  to  steal. 

He  caught  the  deacon  unawares, 
Returning  from  the  evening  prayers, 
And  harshly,   with  a  look  and  frown 
Designed  to  beat  resistance  down, 
"  Show  me,"  he  cried,  "  your  church's  gold  ; 
For  you  possess  it,   I  am  told." 

M 

The  meek  Laurentius,   with  eyes 
Bright  in  the  gleams  of  Paradise, 


LAURENTIUS.  77 

And  wrinkled  face,  through  which   there  ran 

A  glory  undiscerned  of  man, 

Looked  up  and  smiled,  and  seemed  to  be 

A  monarch  in  his  majesty. 

He  quivered  not  with  any  dread, 

Nor  bowed  at  all  his  snowy  head, 

But  stood  serene  and  calm  and  grand 

Before  those  words  of  stern  command. 

His  threadbare  mantle,   flowing  down, 

Was  graceful  as  a  consul's  gown ; 

And,  though  no  purple  stripe  it  bore, 

Displayed  its  owner's  worth  the   more. 

Silent  he  stood  before  the  throng, 

Weak  in  his  age,   yet  proudly  strong, 

And  raised  his  voice  in  mild  reply  : 

"Give  me  three  days  in  which  to  try 

And  redemand  from  every  source 

Our  sacred  treasure  without  force. 

Many  are  those  to  whom  I  go; 

Much  has  been  loaned,  and  much  we  owe." 

The  greedy  prefect,  glad  at  heart 
Since  fate  made  this  the  better  art, 
Unhesitating,  granted  grace 
For  such  delay  and  such  a  space 
Of  time  before  his  hopes  of  gold 
Should  grow  and  blossom  manifold. 

The  days  of  respite  passed,  and  then 
Laurentius  appeared  again 
7* 


?8        WOVEN  FROM  CHURCH  PATTERNS. 

And  gave  him  this  inviting  word  : 
"Come,  see  the  treasure  of  our  Lord! 
A  court  in  which  you  shall  behold 
Uncounted  vessels,  all  of  gold ; 
And  porches  never  heaped  before 
With  such  a  wealth  .  of  shining  ore. ' ' 


The  prefect  rubbed  his  hands  in  glee, 
And  followed  him  with  ecstasy, 
As  one  who,  watching  far  and  wide 
The  footprints  of  the  falling  tide, 
Discerns  some  rare  and  perfect  pearl 
Cast  upward  by  the  ocean's  whirl. 
Street  after  street   he  followed  through 
In   haste  the  promised  sight  to  view, 
And  ever  came  the  eager  thought 
That  even  quaestorships  were  bought. 

At  last,  through  portals  high  and  fair, 
They  reached  the  Christians'  place  of  prayer, 
And,   crowding  in  the  court  around, 
A  multitude  possessed  the  ground. 
The  prefect  looked,  and,  in  amaze, 
Continued  still  his  earnest  gaze ; 
For  still,  on  every  side,  he  saw 
The  victims  of  a  cruel  law : 
Beggars,  in  rank  and  in  degree 
The  very  lords  of  beggary ; 
The  crippled  hero  of  the  wars, 
In  all  his  panoply  of  scars ; 


LAURENTIUS.  79 

The  gladiator,  gashed  and  torn 
By  lion's  claws  or  bison's  horn  ; 
The  slave,  his  brawny  shoulders  bare, 
Latticed  with  scourgings  everywhere; 
The  strange  and  terrible  array 
Of  those  who  must  be  always  gay, 
Who  strive  forever  to  beguile 
With  fixed  and  artificial  smile  — 
Flute-girls  and   dancers,  whom  their  fate 
Had   made  the   playthings   of  the  great; 
The  foam  and  frothing  on  the   brink 
Of  bitterness  which  Rome  should  drink. 

All  these  and  other  sights   of  pain 
Were  seen,  and  yet  were  seen   in  vain ; 
For   other,  sadder  shapes  of  woe, 
Before  his  eyes  made  haste  to  go. 
And,  miserable  in  the  shade 
Which  the   extended   porches  made, 
Lay  those,  worn  out  with  old   disease, 
Whose  cup  of  life  was   at  its  lees; 
The  lame,  the  maimed,  the  weak,  the  blind, 
Were  they  who  thus   remained   behind. 

In  doubt  as   yet  what  this   might  mean, 
The  prefect  paused,  and  stood   between 
Two  marble  pillars,  much   perplexed, 
Fearing  the  mob  and  sorely  vexed. 

"Behold!"    once  more  Laurentius  -aid, 
"The  bequests  of  our  sainted  dead. 


80         WOVEN  FROM  CHURCH  PATTERNS. 

These  are  our  treasures,  better  far 
Than  gold  and  gems  and  silver  are. 
These  are  crown-jewels  of  the  bride 
Which  make  her  fit  for  Jesus'   side. 
Take  them  for  him  who  sent  you  here, 
And  use  them  in   the  Master's  fear. 
Take  them  for  Rome  ;   and  take  them,  too, 
As  better  wealth  than   you   pursue ; 
For  he  who  giveth  to  the  Lord 
Shall  never  lose. his  sure  reward." 

Abashed,  the    prefect  turned  away. 
But  further  none  can  truly  say, 
Since  only  in  God's  judgment-book 
Is  scrolled  what  future  course  he  took. 


TEXTUS  RECEPTIS.  Si 


TEXTUS  RECEPTIS. 

The  Brother  Anselmus,   in  his  cell 
Scrolled  the  New  Testament  wondrous  well. 

Letter  by  letter  across  the  page 
Crept  on  the  marvellous  heritage. 

Before  each  chapter  he  treasured  space 
For  a  rare  device  or  an  angel's  face. 

With  gold  and  azure  and  crimson  lines 
He  traced  the  shape  of  his  quaint  designs. 

Initial-letters,   once  rude  and  bare, 
Under  his  tinting  grew  warm  and  fair; 

And   flowers  of  the  choicest  twined  and  clung 
Where  vines  depended  and  branches  swung. 

Amid  a  desert  of  blackest  text 

They  succored  the  mind  of  one  perplexed  ; 

Making  oases  in   which  to  pause 
And   meditate  upon  holy  laws. 

For   Brother  Anselmus,   morn  by   morn, 
Saw  better  visions   of  beauty  born  ; 

And  over  his  labors,   night  by  night, 
Sat  reasoning  in  a  calm  delight: 


82         WOVEN  FROM  CHURCH  PATTERNS. 

Until  it  passed  to  a  cloister  jest, 

That  with  him  to  work  was  to  be  at  rest. 

But  many  scoffed  when  they  did  not  see 
A  fitting  end  to  his  mystery; 

And  some  asserted,  as  friars  do, 
That  Brother  Anselmus  was   not  true  ; 

For  he  spent  his  efforts,  as  they  averred, 
On  other  work  than  the  Blessed  Word  — 

A  deed  of  guilt,  since  it  dared  withstand 
Their  abbot's  saintliest  reprimand. 

Thus  they  who  cavilled  and  he  who  toiled 
Apart,  in  their  daily  lives  recoiled. 

Yet  the  lonely  monk  at  his  ancient  desk 
Wove  in  black  letter  with  arabesque. 

Gospels  of  Matthew  and  Mark  and  Luke 
Were  far  in  the  front  of  his  vellum  book. 

And  then,  succeeding  to  these,  went  on 
The   precious  record  of  loving  John, 

The  Acts  and  Epistles  manifold 

Of  saints,  whose  titles  were  wrought  in  gold. 

At  last  his  pen,  with  a  careful  touch, 
Delayed  at  the  name  he  loved  so  much  — 


TEXTUS  RECEPTUS.  83 

Entering  truly  and  well  upon 

The  First  Epistle  of  dear  Saint  John. 

Its  glorious  message  of  comfort  brought 
That  peace  which  Anselmus  long  had  sought ; 

And  he  traced  the  lines  with  a  tender  care 
For  thoughts  of  joy  which  were  hidden  there. 

Initial-letter  and  chapter-head 

Were  never  bedaubed  with  heedless  red  ; 

But  lovingly,   and  with  patient  art, 
Became  the  history  of  his  heart: 

As  if  he  wrote  for  the  world  indeed 
That  story  of  faith  which  God  can  read. 

And  once,   late  on  in  the  winter  gloom, 
When  his  lamp  but  feebly  lit  the  room, 

He  saw,  in  the  focus  of  its  rays, 

A  sentence  fashioned  of  trust  and  praise  — 

That  "whatsoever  of  God  is  born 
Overcometh  all  earthly  scorn," 

And   "this,   our  faith,   is  the  victory 
Which  overcometh  its  enmity." 

The  Brother  Anselmus  laid  his  quill 
Quietly  down,   and   pondered  still : 


84        WOVEN  FROM  CHURCH  PATTERNS. 

And  then,  with  a  heart  relieved  from  doubt, 
He  scrolled  it  in  golden  ink  throughout : 

And  none  but  the  angels  floating  by 
Had  caught  the  sound  of  his  final  sigh. 

But  they  found  him  at  matins  still  and  cold, 
His  dead  lips  touching  the  text  of  gold. 

And  when  they  bore  him  away  to  rest, 
They  placed  his  volume  upon  his  breast, 

Clasping  his  hands  above  the  word 

For  which  he  listened — and  which  he  heard. 

Christmas-Time,  1866. 


CYPRIAN'S   WORDS.  85 


CYPRIAN'S  WORDS. 

Spake  good  Cyprian  of  Carthage  well  and  wisely, 
once  of  old, 

Writing  down  his  own  heart-teaching  as  in  manu- 
script of  gold: 

"God  would  have  us  tried  and  sifted,  and  the  hearts 

that  still  believe, 
Strength  and  help  in  all  affliction,  from  the  Father 

shall  receive." 

Years   ago   that  bishop  holy  left   the   Mauritania]] 

shore, 
Tried  indeed  with   all  affliction,   martyred   for  the 

faith  he  bore; 

But  his  words,  to-day  as  precious  as  they  were  in 

other  days, 
Bear  about  them  in  his  honor  better  far  than  earthly 

praise. 

Fainting  in  our  feeble  efforts,  failing  in  our  meagre 

faith, 
Well  may  we  in  shame  and  sorrow  ponder  what  the 

martyr  saith. 

So,   from  trust   approved   in  trial,  we   may  learn   a 

higher  life  ; 
So,  from  bitter  persecution,  learn  to  bear  this  lesser 

strife. 
S 


S6 


WOVEN  FROM  CHURCH  PATTERNS. 


All  the  day  shall  not  be  darkness,  all  the  night  shall 

not  be  pain ; 
And  though   years   may  pass   but  slowly,  we  shall 

reach  to  light  again. 


THE   PICTURE    OF  CHRIST.  S? 


THE  PICTURE  OF  CHRIST. 

Under  the  gathered  dust  of  years 
Many  a  time  the  truth  appears ; 
Many  a  time  the  words  of  old 
Shine  the  better  when  freshly  told  ; 
And  over  their  story  hangs  a  praise 
Growing  nobler  by  lapse  of  days. 
Such  are  the  tales  of  early  date 
Concerning  bishop  and  celibate, 
Concerning  wonders  the  martyrs  wrought, 
Concerning  treasures  the  churches  brought, 
Concerning  much  now  long  left  out, 
Which  quaint  Baronius  wrote  about. 

His  are  the  folios,  dark  with  age, 
Wherein  are  annals  of  seer  and  sage, 
Printed  when  Faust's  inventive  hand 
Not  long  had  lifted  the  glowing  brand 
Of  that  pure  fire  of  a  knowledge  freed 
From  harsh  dominion  and  selfish  creed. 
Here,  on  the  page  of  each  bulky  tome 
A  black-art  mystery  seems  at  home. 
Here,  in  such  Latin  as  classics  hate, 
Is  record  of  Constantine  the  Great. 
The  marvellous  history  here  unrolls 
Of  sainted  heroes  with  holy  souls, 
Of  Peter  and  Paul  and  divers  others, 
Bishops  and  deacons  and  lay-brothers; 


88         WOVEN  FROM  CHURCH  PATTERNS. 

Of  women,  mighty  in  all  good  deeds, 

And  "ladies  elect"  in  widow's  weeds; 

Of  Nero's  circus,  when  games  began 

Where  each  blazing  torch  was  a  living  man ; 

Of  caves  which  ramify  under  Rome, 

Where  the  threatened  Christians  found  a  home, 

Holding  a  church  in  a  catacomb. 

These,  and  the  like,  each  student  still 
Can  read  and  ponder  as  he  will : 
Yet  one  old  legend  may  be  spared, 
Culled  from  a  myriad  undeclared. 

Here  followeth  then,  in  modern  phrase, 
Baronius'  story  of  ancient  days. 

Constantia,  sister  of  Constantine, 
Was  given  to  thought  of  things  divine. 
Sylvester  had  laid  upon  her  head 
Baptismal  blessing  before  she  wed, 
And  thus  at  Rome,  in  the  holy  place, 
She  followed  the  fashion  of  her  race, 
Owning  herself  by  the  bishop's  hands 
No  longer  subject  to  Satan's  bands. 

Her  husband,  Caius  Licinius, 
While  in  the  East,  grew  mutinous, 
And,  fighting  against  his  rightful  liege 
At  Nicomedia,  lost  the  siege ; 
Ending  at  last  a  conquered  lord, 
And  dying  under  the  headsman's  sword. 


THE  PICTURE   OF  CHRIST.  89 

She  then,  a  widow,  dwelt  peacefully, 

And  wished  to  pray  in  obscurity, 

Quietly  waiting  for  the  day 

When  mortal  troubles  shall  pass  away. 

Yet  was  her  fate  of  another  sort. 

Her  brother  replaced  her  in  his  court, 

And  there,  beset  upon  every  side 

With  words  of  praise  and  with  thoughts  of  pride, 

Her  life  shone  out  like  a  splendid  star, 

And  cast  its  lustre  serene  and  far. 

At  Nicomedia  dwelt  a  man  — 
Eusebius,  the  historian  — 
Who,  in  his  volume,  says  that  he 
Has  seen  the  Christ  of  Calvary. 
Not  in  his  human  shape  alone  — 
For  three  whole  centuries  then  had  flown ; 
But  still  in  image  as  rarely  true 
As  any  mortal  might  dare  to  view  ;  — 
He  saw  St.  Paul  and  St.  Peter  too  — 
And  these  were  portraits,  preserved  with  care, 
Whose  tone  and  tinting  were  wondrous  fair. 

Him  had  Constantia  questioned  much 
Of  these  sweet  relics  and  other  such; 
And  he,  as  Bishop  of  Palestine, 
Told  her  about  that  One  divine  — 
Yet  said  no  more  to  describe  the  face 
Than  here  I  say  in  this  later  place. 
Of  Peter  and  Paul  he  talked  with  ease, 
And  spoke  of  the  famed  symbolic  kt 
8* 


90        WOVEN  FROM  CHURCH  PATTERNS. 

He  mentioned  the  painter's  skill  and  art, 
The  feeling  of  truth  in  every  part, 
The  certainty  which  his  mind  received 
That  these  were  faces  to  be  believed. 
But  always  he  stopped  most  reverently 
At  the  last  description  of  the  three 
Not  telling  his  vision  openly. 

Constantia  often  longed  in  vain 
To  cause  the  bishop  to  be  more  plain ; 
And  finally,  after  years  of  thought, 
Grew  wholly  bent  upon  what  she  sought. 
The  Christ  of  Calvary,  raised  on  high  — 
Ascending,  never  again  to  die  — 
Had  left  behind  Him  this  holy  trace, 
This  one  true  likeness,  this  perfect  face. 
And  if,  by  means  which  were  still  untried, 
She  too  might  see  it  before  she  died, 
This  would  repay  her  waiting  years, 
Her  faithful  vigils  and  prayerful  tears. 

To  Nicomedia  then  she  went 
On  such  an  errand  of  pure  intent, 
But  finding  Eusebius  far  from  thence, 
Active  in  all  benevolence, 
And  busied  with  matters  of  the  Church, 
She  wrote  him  letters  about  her  search : 
"  Where  could  this  face  of  Christ  be  found? 
In  what  abode  of  the  region  round  ? 
Who  was  its  guardian  ?     Who  possessed 


THE  PICTURE    OF  CHRIST  9 1 

This  treasure,  rarer  than  all  the  rest? 
Where  was  its  crypt,  or  cave,  or  chest  ? 
Let  him  send  it,  that  she  might  view- 
That  very  Christ  the  Apostles  knew." 

Again  and  again  did  words  like  these 
Follow  him  over  his  diocese, 
Until,  as  she  would  not  be  denied, 
The  Bishop  Eusebius  replied. 

"You  wish,"  he  writes,  "that  myself  should  send 
The  image  of  Christ  to  you,  my  friend ; 
But  tell  me  fairly  and  candidly 
What  do  you  think  that  this  may  be? 
Is  it  that  one,  unchanged  and  true, 
Which  has  no  age  and  is  ever  new, 
Which  bore  our  nature  yet  kept  its  own, 
And  which  is  the  right  of  God  alone  ? 
With  this,  I  trust,  you  are  not  concerned, 
Since  you,  from  the  Scriptures  having  learned, 
Cannot  mistake  the  Apostle's  speech, 
1  That  none  may  ever  the  knowledge  reach 
Of  God  the  Father,  save  God  the  Son ; 
Nor  can  there  be  found  a  single  one 
To  know  the  Son  save  the  Father  only.' 
In  short,  that  here  is  an  image  lonely  ; 
Which  none  may  touch,  and  which  none  attain, 
So  long  as  sin  and  ourselves  remain. 

••  Nor  do  I  think  that  image  meant 
Where  God  and  man,  in  one  person  blent, 


92         WOVEN  FROM  CHURCH  PATTERNS. 

Trod  the  stained  earth  with  His  sinless  feet, 

Felt  in  His  bosom  our  sorrows  beat, 

Bore  in  Himself  our  human  fears, 

Wept  over  us  such  godlike  tears, 

Died  for  our  sake  such  a  human  death, 

Rose  for  our  sake  with  such  godlike  breath  — 

That  truly  these  are  so  woven  in, 

The  sinful  with  that  which  cannot  sin, 

The  human  with  that  which  is  all  divine, 

As  no  mere  mortal  can  well  define. 

Who,  therefore,  by  colors  so  dead  and  cold 

Can  show  the  splendor  which  shone  of  old, 

Can  paint  the  God  and  the  man  —  that  face 

In  its  mortal  and  yet  immortal  grace  ? 

Who,  by  a  picture  transitory, 

Can  tell  one  half  of  the  holy  story  ? 

For  they  who  loved  him  the  first  and  chief — 

Who  held  to  Him  with  the  best  belief — 

When  on  the  mountain  apart  from  men, 

Saw  Him  too  wondrous  for  tongue  or  pen, 

And,  falling  prone  at  the  awful  sight, 

Could  not  endure  so  great  a  light ! 

"If,  then,  His  figure  when  here  on  earth 
Received  such  power  from  His  sacred  birth; 
If  this  dear  Saviour  could  not  be  known 
When  here  apart  from  the  Father's  throne  — 
What  must  it  be  when  now  He  reigns 
Above  the  torment  of  human  pains  ? 
No  painted  image  can  reach  Him  there, 
No  artist's  pencil  His  face  declare. 


THE   PICTURE    OE  CHRIST  93 

u  I  do  not  send  you  the  likeness,  then. 
Far  better  than  this  may  be  yours:   for  when 
You  search  your  heart  as  you  search  the  land. 
And  plan  with  zeal  as  you  now  have  planned; 
When  thought  goes  out  to  all  holy  things  ;• 
When  your  soul  has  eyes,  and  your  prayers  have 

wings; 
When  the  hardest  toil  of  our  common  lot 
Becomes  transformed,  and  its  pain  is  not; 
When  penitence  for  the  sinful  life 
Welds  the  armor  for  nobler  strife  — 
Then,  at  last,  you  are  near  your  goal, 
For  the  face  of  the  Lord  is  upon  your  soul, 
And  faith,  in  your  faithful  life  can  see 
The  image  of  Christ  of  Calvary." 

And  here  Baronius  turns  the  page, 
And  adds  long  records  of  saint  and  sage. 
The  old  black-letter  runs  on  again 
Like  a  turbid  stream  after  summer  rain. 
But  I  close  the  book,  for  its  tale  is  told  — 
That  story  new,  though  it  seemeth  old ; 
And  I  sit  in  silence,  since  here  indeed 
The  dead  have  written  for  me  to  read. 


(T^>^^S^S^x^^ 


WOVEN   AT   ODD   HOURS. 


THE  TYRANT  OF  TROPPAU. 
1866. 

IN  the  foreign  war  which  is  ended  now, 
It  happened  (I  cannot  tell  you  how) 
That  the  Prussian  infantry  held  Troppau. 
One  poor  sentry  was  posted  there, 
At  the  very  top  of  the  steeple  stair , 
Who,  keeping  watch  upon  things  without, 
Discovered  his  regiment  all  in  rout, 
Hurrying  past  at  their  quickest  rate, 
(Which,  in  fact,  was  rather  a  speedy  gait,) 
As  though  they  did  n't  intend  to  wait: 
And  then  he  thought  that  his  time  was  come 
Like  them  to  follow  the  fife  and  drum ; 
And  so  descended  each  crooked  flight 
Of  ladders  which  threaded  the  dizzy  height, 
With  his  musket  slung  by  its  leathern  strap, 
And  a  century's  cobwebs  on  his  cap. 
Dirty  and  breathless  he  reached  the  street  — 
But  those  were  gone  whom  he  hoped  to  meet. 

Was  there  ever  a  scrape  like  this, 
Or  ever  a  quandary  such  as  his  ? 

9  97 


98  WOVEN  AT  ODD   HOURS. 

The  Prussian  backs  were  a  mile  away, 
And  the  enemy's  army  had  won  the  day; 
The  town  was  empty  of  every  face 
Which  seemed  to  promise  him  any  grace ; 
So  now  that  he  dared  not  trust  the  people, 
He  climbed  the  stair  which  was  in  the  steeple, 
And  there  awaited,  like  any  German, 
The  first  assault  of  the  burgher  vermin. 

He  filled  his  pipe  and  began  to  smoke, 
Regarding  the  whole  as  a  kind  of  joke, 
Which  might,  indeed,  be  very  unpleasant 
To  some  poor,  ignorant,  helpless  peasant, 
But  not  to  him  of  the  Prussian  corps  — 
He  had  heard  of  such  doings  long  before. 
The  way,  you  know,  is  to  keep  your  wits, 
Guard  the  approaches,  and  give  'em  fits; 
Haul  up  your  ladders  and  stay  above, 
Ready  either  to  shoot  or  shove; 
Club  your  musket  and  rattle  down 
Blows  by  the  dozen  on  every  crown ; 
Or  settle  them  all  with  a  steady  dose 
Of  leaden  pills  administered  close: 
And  thus,  if  your  cartridges  only  last, 
You'll  not  be  captured  so  very  fast. 

After  a  while  the  citizens  came, 
Parleyed,  palavered,  and  asked  his  name, 
Wished  to  know  if  he  wouldn't  come  down, 
Under  their  escort,  and  see  the  town? 


THE    TYRANT  OF  TROPPAU.  99 

Tried  to  tempt  him  in  divers  ways; 
Wearied  him  much  with  threats  and  praise; 
Rushed  at  him  up  the  steeple-stair  : 
But  found  that  victory  wasn't  there. 

How  he  tumbled  the  burghers  down 
Toward  the  dirt  of  their  ancient  town  ; 
How   he  cunningly  saved   his   powder 
While   the  baffled  enemy  shouted  louder ; 
How  he  finally  drove  them  back, 
Hammering  some  like  a  bruiser's  sack  — 
These  are  matters  which  you  will   find 
In  the  record  of  him  who  was  left  behind. 


Well,   they  ordered  him  down  once  more, 
Then  retreated,   and   locked  the  door, 
Telling  him,   in  the  fiercest   way, 
To  stay  and  starve,    if  he  wished  to  stay ; 
And  adding,   in  grim  and  ghastly  tones, 
That  some  day,  doubtless,  they  'd  find  his  bones 
Lying  white  on  the  belfry  stones. 

To  which  he  answered  that  it  was  well 
To  tell  him  all  that  they  had  to  tell ; 
But  as  for  him,   he  had  ammunition  — 
Plenty  too  —  and  a  good  position, 
And  just  so  sure  as  they  blocked  him  in, 
They  would  learn  that  numbers  don't  always  win  ; 
While  as  to  starving,  the  case  was  clear: 
Their  principal  street  was  much  too  near, 


IOO  WOVEN  AT  ODD   HOURS. 

And  none  should  pass  till  the  town  agreed 
To  furnish  him  with  the  best  of  feed ! 
In  short,  he  proposed  to  stop  their  driving, 
Unless  they  would  keep  him  well  and  thriving. 

Quite  audacious,  as  matters  stood; 
But  quite  successful,  and  so  as  good 
As  any  stratagem,   proved  and  fine, 
By  which  distinguished  commanders  shine. 

The  citizens  did  as  he  told  them  to : 
There  was  really  nothing  else  to   do ; 
For  who  would  wish  to  destroy  the  trade 
By  which  Tiis  kreuzers  were  daily  made, 
When  his  only  chances   of  quiet  selling 
Were  during  the  intervals  of  shelling? 

For  two  whole  days  they  supplied  his  need 
With  fresh  provisions,   as  was  agreed. 
Silly  fellows!    they  didn't  think 
Of  puttting  anything  into  his  drink; 
Or  stuffing  an  arsenic-pill  within 
Some  great  ham-sausage's  smoky  skin ; 
Or  giving  him  plenty  of  Schweitzer-kase, 
(In  which  the  skippers  run  fifty  ways ;) 
Or  vitriolizing  his  saner-kraut 
On  purpose  to  try  and  serve  him  out; 
Or  cracking  his  teeth  with  the  blackest  bread 
Baked  in  oven  since  Noah  wed, 
And  which,   as  a  specimen  rare  and  good, 
Came  in  the  ark  from  before  the  flood ; 


THE    TYRANT  OF  TROPPAU.  101 

Or  filling  his  pipe  with  a  deadly  lot 

Of  knastert  destructive  as  canister-shot; 

Or  letting  him  have  what  was  vastly  meaner  — 

A  bit  from  a  pig  which  had  died  of  trichina. 

They  never  thought  of  things  like  these, 
Of  bony  herring  or  fatal  cheese ; 
Of  cholera  morbus,    induced  by  means 
Of  any  indigestible  greens  ; 
Or  a  nice  brain-fever,   produced  at  pleasure 
By  heavy  philosophers  read  at  leisure  — 
But  simply  sent,   in  their  simple  way, 
The  tribute  the  Prussian  made  them  pay. 

Thus  he  lived  on  the  fat  of  the  land, 
Holding  Troppau  at  his  own  command  — 
An  autocrat,   from  a  steeple's  top 
Ready  to  let  his  lightnings  drop, 
(As  Jove,   in  the  old  mythology, 
Hurls  his  thunderbolts   down  the  sky)  — 
Until  his  regiment  came  again 
And  took  the  city  by  might  and  main  : 
For  then,   recruited  by  steeple-habits, 
By  pcties-de-foix-gras  and  stewed  rabbits  — 
By  all  that  the  aldermen  were  able 
To  spread  for  the  comfort  of  his  table  — 
He  came  to  meet  them,   as  round  and  fair 
As  when  he  ascended  the  belfry  stair, 
And,  feeling  the  benefit  of  haste, 
Invited  his  comrades  in  to  taste 
II      beer,  that  it  should  not  go  to  waste] 
9* 


102  WOVEN  AT  ODD  HOURS. 

SIR  KAY'S  EXCUSE. 

A    CHAPTER    FROM   THE   "  MORTE   D'ARTHUR.M 

King  Marke  of  Cornwall,  on  a  quiet  noon, 
When  May  was  passing  into  leafy  June, 
Sat  by  his  chamber  window  at  the  chess, 
And  moved  the  men  to  cure  his  idleness; 
While  all  the  air  around  his  balcony 
Was  full  and  overflowed  with  melody. 
The  very  birds  were  fit  to  rend  their  throats 
In  quaint  concordance  of  their  rarest  notes; 
The  strong  young  leaves  which  wove  above  his  head 
Mellowed  the  glory  which  the  sunlight  shed ; 
The  hounds  lay  sleeping  in  the  court  below, 
Where  the  old  warder  strung  a  faithful  bow ; 
The  hawk  upon  his  perch  beside  the  wall 
Ruffled  his  feathers  at  a  distant  call, 
But  smoothed  them  soon ;  the  horses  near  at  hand 
Found  their  long  respite  hard  to  understand; 
For  never  had  a  single  trumpet's  bray 
Broken  the  stillness  of  that  perfect  day. 
Yet,  had  King  Marke  the  Cruel  been  aware 
Of  what  was  purposed  by  Ysolde  the  Fair, 
He  had  not  sat,  with  features  grave  and  sage, 
Playing  at  chess  against  his  little  page. 
He  would,  in  truth,  have  borne  the  story  ill 
Of  how  Sir  Tristram  had  escaped  his  will ; 
And  much  I  fear  that  luckless  page  had  found 
Himself  as  well  as  chessmen  thrust  around. 


SIR   KAY'S  EXCUSE.  103 

For  kings,  who  have  their  way,  as  all  must  know, 

Display  their  anger  often  by  a  blow. 

Still,  unsuspicious  of  a  coming  fate, 

King  Marke  played  on  with  countenance  sedate. 

Within  the  turret,  just  above  the  trees, 
Sir  Tristram  and  Sir  Kay  abode  at  ease. 
Dame  Bragwaine  and  the  fair  Ysolde  alone 
Preserved  the  secret  of  this  room  of  stone ; 
And  that  dull  warden,  who  perchance  could  guess 
How  knights  had  entered  clad  in  yeomen's  dress. 
So  on  this  day  they  watched  the  king  beneath 
Tapping  upon  his  jewelled  dagger-sheath  ; 
Pushing  a  bishop  to  an  adverse  square, 
And  taking  back  his  move  with  crafty  care; 
Or  else,  with  knitted  brow  and  lip  compressed, 
Pondering  whether  this  or  that  were  best. 
They  saw  the  page,  intent  upon  the  game, 
Yawn  suddenly  and  dread  an  open  shame  — 
Concealing  with  the  plume  upon  his  cap 
As  best  he  could  this  unforeseen  mishap. 
And  then  Sir  Tristram  and  the  mild  Sir  Kay 
Choked  with  their  laughter,  even  as  they  lay 
Half  out  of  window,  peering  through  the  leaves, 
And  so  drew  back  more  guiltily  than  thieves. 
Then,  while  in  merry  mood  upon  the  floor 
They  sat  and  talked,  there  entered  at  the  door 
Ysolde  the  Queen,  the  fairest  lady  known 
Within  a  cottage  or  before  a  throne; 
Whose  bright,  sweet   presence  caused  the   room  to 

shine 
As  though  it  held  some  radiant  gem  divine. 


104  WOVEN-  AT   ODD   HOURS. 

Even  for  her  sake  had  Kay  and  Tristram  stayed 
A  fortnight  in  this  nook  which  she  had  made; 
The  while  King  Marke,  with  evil  in  his  soul, 
Scoured  the  whole  land  of  which  he  had  control ; 
And  longed  to  slay  Sir  Tristram  how  he  would, 
But  found  no  happy  moment  when  he  could. 
They  rose  upon  their  feet,  and,  as  they  did, 
Dropped  from  Kay's  bosom  letters  which  were  hid  — 
Disclosing  to  Sir  Tristram's  startled  sight 
Ysolde's  own  writing  on  the  crumpled  white. 
With  one  quick  grasp  he  snatched  them  both  away 
And  charged  his  baseness  on  the  gentle  Kay ; 
While  Fair  Ysolde,  whose  pity  wrought  it  all, 
Fell  in  a  swoon  against  the  nearest  wall ; 
For  though  she  loved  Sir  Tristram  first  and  best, 
She  had  been  sad  to  see  Sir  Kay  distressed, 
And,  as  a  tender  woman  might,  she  sent 
No  other  words  than  those  for  friendship  meant. 

But  Tristram,  careless  of  all  else  beside, 
Called  on  Sir  Kay  "to  guard  him,  or  he  died  ;  " 
And,  rushing  on  him  while  his  rage  was  hot, 
In  one  short  second  all  his  love  forgot. 
And  Kay,  beholding  death  thus  soon  and  near, 
Was  strangely  smitten  so  with  grief  and  fear, 
That  through  the  opened  sash  he  gave  a  spring, 
And  vaulted  down  upon  the  heedless  king. 

The  branches  crashed,  the  table  broke  in  twain, 
The  chessmen  scattered,  nor  were  found  again; 
The  page  ran  howling  down  the  turret  stair 
Into  the  chapel,  and  began  a  prayer ; 


SIR  KAY'S  EXCUSE.  105 

The  hawk  screamed  loudly,  shaking  all  his  bells; 
The  hounds  bayed  answer  to  the  page's  yells; 
The  horses  neighed  and  snorted  as  they  stood  ; 
The  warden  cursed  the  noisy  neighborhood  ; 
And  Kay  the  Mild,  bewildered  by  his  fall, 
Stared  on  each  side,  nor  feared  King  Marke  at  all. 

Then  spoke  the  king,  with  his  most  awful  frown, 
M  Who  are  you,  fellow,  that  come  hurling  down 
Out  of  that  window,  nearly  on  my  head?" 
••  My  lord  the  king,"  Sir  Kay  the  Gentle  said, 
"  It  fortuned  me  that  in  that  window-seat 
I  was  asleep,  whereby  the  summer  heat 
Caused  me  to  slumber  sounder  than  I  use. 
And  so  I  fell  —  and  this  is  my  excuse." 
Then  shouted  stern  King  Marke  without  debate, 
"  Kick  me  this  fellow  through  the  castle  gate  1  " 

That  night  Sir  Tristram,  while  men's  sleep  was 

young, 
Reached  the  great  hall  where  weapons  had  been 

hung, 
Got  him  equipment,  and  by  dawn  of  day, 
Was  far  beyond  those  portals  on  his  way. 


^sx^S^^> 


106  WOVEN  AT  ODD  HOURS. 


SUMMER  READING. 

I  am  looking  through  the  pages  of  forgotten  old 
romances, 
Idly  thinking,  as  I  read  them,  of  the  times    now 
passed  away; 
While  the  bees  are  in  the  blossoms,  and  the  mellow 
sunshine  glances, 
And  the  birds  are  singing  carols  all  the  long,  long 
summer  day. 

I  am  wearing  out  the  moments  by  a  dip  into  Bonomi, 
And  the  cuneiform  inscriptions  are  puzzling  my 
poor  brain ; 
So,  in  sheer  despair  at  trying,  I  have  voted  them 
below  me, 
And  have  bent  my  whole  attention  on  Monseigneur 
de  Montaigne. 

With  his  quaint  discourse  enchanted,  I  have  wan- 
dered through  the  ages, 
And  have  just  exchanged  his  volume  for  my  good 
Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
Who  has  led  me,  by  his  quoting  from  the  grand  old 
Latin  sages, 
Till,  to  satisfy  my  conscience,  I  have  taken  Haw- 
thorne down. 


SUMMER  READING.  107 

And,   with  all  the   little  children  who   have  heard 
those  tales  repeated, 
I  renew  my  ancient  friendship  for  the  myths  of 
olden  time; 
While  I   only  just  remember  I  am  at  my  window 
seated, 
And  am  not  in  distant  regions  of  a  mellow  East- 
ern clime. 

Till,  recalled  by  some  suggestion  of  the  page  which 
lies  before  me, 
The  features,  more  familiar,  of  a  nearer  friend 
arise ; 
And  the  spell  that  holds  my  fancy,  as  again  it  passes 
o'er  me, 
Brings  back  the  quiet  welcome  of  those  unforgotten 
eyes. 

So  I  lay  the  book  beside  me ;  I  am  ended  for  the 
morning, 
With  its  words  of  strange  enchantment,  for  their 
power  has  passed  away  ; 
I  can  think  of  nothing  further  than  the  face  that 
wears  no  scorning : 
I  must   read   unwritten  volumes  if  I  read   again 
to-day. 


108  WOVEN  AT  ODD  HOURS. 


SMOKE  AND  CHESS. 

We  were  sitting  at  chess  as  the  sun  went  down, 
And  he,  from  his  meerschaum's  glossy  brown, 
With  a  ring  of  smoke  made  his  king  a  crown. 

The  cherry  stem,  with  its  amber  tip, 

Thoughtfully  rested  on  his  lip, 

As  the  goblet's  rim  from  which  heroes  sip. 

And,  looking  out  through  the  early  green, 
He  called  on  his  patron  saint,  I  ween  — 
That  misty  maiden,  Saint  Nicotine ; 

While  ever  rested  that  crown  so  fair, 
Poised   in  the  warm  and  pulseless  air, 
On  the  carven  chessman's  ivory  hair. 

Dreamily  wandered  the  game  along, 

Quietly  moving  at  even-song, 

While  the  striving  kings  stood   firm  and  strong ; 

Until  that  one  which  of  late  was  crowned 
Flinched  from  a  knight's  determined  bound, 
And  in  sullen  majesty  left  the  ground, 

Reeling  back;    and  it  came  to  pass 
That,  waiting  to  mutter  no  funeral  mass, 
A  bishop  had  dealt  him  the  coup  de  grace. 


SMOKE  AND   CHESS.  IO9 

And  so,  as  we  sat,  we  reasoned  still 
Of  fate  and  of  fortune,  of  human  will, 
And  what  are  the  purposes  men  fulfil. 

For  we  see  at  last  when  the  truth  arrives 
The  moves  on  the  chess-board  of  our  lives  — 
That  fields  may  be  lost  though  the  king  survives. 

Not  always  he  whom  the  world  reveres 
Merits  its  honor  or  wins  its  cheers, 
Standing  the  best  at  the  end  of  years. 

Not  always  he  who  has  lost  the  fight 
Rises  again  with  the  coming  light, 
Battles  anew  for  his  ancient  right. 


10 


TIO  WOVEN  AT  ODD  HOURS. 


A  SMALL  WARBLER. 

A  little  bird  with  the  blackest  eyes 
Sits  on  a  twig  and  nods  at  me ; 
Very  merry  he  seems  to  be, 
And  wise. 

I  wish  I  knew  what  the  fellow  thinks, 
Saucily  shaking  his  cunning  head  — 
Whether  it  cannot  all  be  said 
By  winks. 

I  wish  I  were  of  the  craft  as  well, 

Careless  of  morrows  which  come  too  soon, 
Hearing  the  tales  a  golden  noon 
Can  tell. 

For  I  should  tarry  among  the  leaves, 
Breathing  no  other  than  balmy  air, 
Seeing  my  harvest  everywhere 
In  sheaves. 

And  then  I  should  tax  my  brain  no  more, 
Thick  though  the  snowflakes  chose  to  fall, 
Knowing  I  have  beyond  them  all 
A  shore. 


LW'DEKG  RADIATE    ORIOLES,  m 


UNDERGRADUATE  ORIOLES. 

On  a  picture  by  Mrs.  Emma  Seligman,  Philadelphia,  March 

5th,  1S67. 

Four  little  mouths  agape  forever ; 

Four  little  throats  which  are  never  full ; 
Four  little  nestlings,  who  dissever 

One  big  worm  by  a  mighty  pull. 

Up  on  a  limb  —  the  lazy  fellow!  — 
Perches  the  father,   bold  and  gay ; 

Proud  of  his  coat  of  black  and  yellow, 
Always  singing  throughout  the  day. 

Close  at  their  side  the  watchful  mother, 
Quietly  sober  in  dress  and  song. 

Chooses  her  place,  and  asks  no  other, 
Plying  and  gleaning  all  day  long. 

Four  little  mouths  in  time  grow  smaller; 

Four  little  throats  in  time  are  filled  ; 
Four  little  nestlings  quite  appal   her, 

Spreading  their  wings  for  the  sun  to  gild. 

Lazy  no  longer  sits  the  father ; 

His  is  the  care  of  the  singing-school: 
He  must  teach  them  to  fly  and  gather 

Splendid  worms  by  the  nearest  pool. 


112  WO  VEN  A  T  ODD  HO  URS. 

Swinging  away  on  the  shaken  branches, 
Under  the  light  of  the  happy  sun ; 

Dropping  through  blossoms  like  avalanches - 
Father  Oriole's  work  is  done. 

Four  little  beaks  their  mouths  embolden ; 

Four  little  throats  are  round  and  strong; 
Four  little  nestlings,  fledged  and  golden, 

Graduate  in  the  world  of  song. 


RENOVATION. 


RENOVATION. 

There  are  sounds  across  the  prairie, 
Songs  of  birds  which,  clear  and  airy, 

Greet  the  light; 
With  the  freshening  of  the  clover, 
And  the  wild  geese  flying  over 

All  the  night. 

There  are  buds  of  promise  starting, 
Now  that  winter  is  departing, 

And  the  spring, 
Warm  and  joyous,   is  returning, 
Glowing  bright,  and,   in  her  yearning, 

Blossoming. 

In  my  heart  the  spring  is  coming, 
And  the  insects'   distant  humming 

Brings  again 
All  the  days  of  mirth  and  laughter, 
As  the  sunshine  follows  after 

Early  rain. 

And  the  love,  long  kept  and  cherished, 
Kept,  when  other  loves  have  perished, 

Buds  anew ; 
Hidden  but  to  prove  its  fitness, 
Rising  thus  again  to  witness 

It  is  true 
10* 


114  WOVEN  AT  ODD  HOURS. 


ON  MY  BACK. 

Here  in  the  shade  amid  the  clover, 
You  shall  discover  me,  friend  of  mine; 

Oak  leaf  and  maple  bending  over, 
Tangled  with  tendrils  of  the  vine. 

This  is  my  fortress  —  here  I  battle 
•  Evil  which  grows  from  the  city's  thought; 
Here  I  forget  the  ceaseless  rattle, 

Hurry,  and  toil,  which  men  have  wrought. 

These  are  the  pages  which  the  summer  — 
Diligent  student! — thumbs  and  turns, 

Reading  in  haste,  like  some  late  comer, 
Into  whose  soul  the  wisdom  burns. 

Come  to  me,  then.      No  poet's  measure 
Holds  to  the  full  this  golden  day, 

Rich  in  what  gifts  of  countless  treasure 
Winter,  the  miser,  hid  away. 

Hark!  to  his  wife  the  thrush  is  calling; 

All  the  blue  sky  is  thrilled  with  song; 
Now  and  then  through  the  tree-tops  falling, 

Full  of  a  mirth  most  glad  and  strong. 

Here  to  the  shade  amid  the  clover 

Come,  and  discover  me,  friend  of  mine ; 

Oak  leaf  and  maple  bending  over, 
Tangled  with  tendrils  of  the  vine. 


MI  DAS. 


"5 


MIDAS. 

Treacherous  rushes  were  they  that  told 
The  secret  won  from  the  barber's  fears, 

How,  spite  of  kingdom,  in  spite  of  gold, 

In  spite  of  lineage  fair  and  old, 

The  great  King  Midas  had  asses'  ears. 

Well,  you  may  doubt  that  the  tale  was  true, 
Quibble  and  query  as  much  as  you  will ; 
And  yet,  whatever  the  Greeks  might  do, 
The  story  has  fitness  for  them  and  you, 
And  the  truth  of  its  moral  is  useful  still. 

For  this  you  may  notice,  wherever  you  go, 
That  each,  impelled  by  his  private  fears, 
Has  that  which  he  tells  to  but  one  or  so  — 
Some  flaw  in  life  to  be  whispered  low  — 
In  short,  that  each  Midas  has  asses'  ears. 

Truly  hapless,  alas!  are  we 

Who  think  all  matters  in  truth  are  done: 
We  wag  on  our  little  way  in  glee, 
While  we  and  our  Dead-Sea  apples  agree; 

And  then  —  naught  but  lies  is  beneath  the  sun. 

And  the  rushes  grow  up  in  the  hole  to-day, 

Dreamily  murmuring  unto  the  breeze 
The  secrets  men  would  have  hid  alway, 
Hoping,  but  tailing,  by  prisons  of  clay, 

To  hinder  their  going  wherever  they  please. 


1 1 6  WO  VEN  A  T  ODD  HO  URS. 


CASTLES  IN  THE  AIR. 

I  have  a  palace 

Beyond  the  valleys 
Which  greet  Olympus  in  Grecian  lands; 

A  misty  mansion, 

Whose  vague  expansion 
The  morning  holds  in  her  sunny  hands. 

Some  frozen  region 
Of  realms  Norwegian, 

With  rugged  splendors  of  cape  and  cliff, 
Holds  fiords  of  wonder 
Which  cleave  asunder 

Before  the  bows  of  my  rapid  skiff. 

My  visions  vanish 

To  countries  Spanish, 
Beneath  the  glow  of  Castilian  skies ; 

For  there,  enchanted, 

I  dwell,  unhaunted 
By  any  terror  of  prying  eyes. 

The  wildest  stories 

Of  tropic  glories 
Have  failed  to  utter  the  truth  to  me 

Of  verdant  highlands 

And  fairest  islands 
Which  I  possess  in  the  central  sea. 


CASTLES  IX  THE  AIR.  117 

Ah,   me  !    no  mortal 

Can  hew  the  portal 
Of  solid  granite  or  carven  stone ; 

Nor  can  I  ever, 

By  long  endeavor, 
Make  these  possessions  my  very  own. 

The  sun  each  morning 

Is  freshly  scorning 
My  palace,   fashioned  of  flying  clouds ; 

And  northern  summers 

Find  other  comers 
Than  my  swift  bark  with  her  taughtened  shrouds. 

My  Spanish  fastness, 

For  all  its  vastness, 
Dissolves  itself  in  a  golden  haze ; 

And   tropic   splendor 

(That  witch   of  Endor!) 
Calls  up  the  ghosts  of  my   buried  days. 

And  thus  they  leave  me, 

As  some  deceive  me 
In   whom  I  trusted  above  the  rest ; 

They   roll  together 

Like  April   weather, 
And  so  pass  over  beyond  the  West. 

But  still   I  'm   building 
In   Dream-land,  gilding 


Il8  WOVEN  AT  ODD  HOURS. 

My  latest  turrets  with  scattered  rays; 

And  still  I  'm  sowing 

For  harvests  growing 
To  full  completion  in  future  ways. 

In  pure  fee-simple 

Each  sunny  dimple, 
Each  fresh,  bright  land  of  the  earth  is  mine ; 

And  each  new  season 

But  adds  a  reason 
To  sanction  me  in  my  right  divine. 

0  homes  unreckoned  ! 
Whose  pleasures  beckoned 

Throughout  the  modes  of  my  changing  dream, 

1  still  reach  to  you 

My  hands,  and  through  you 
Gain  things  which  are,  by  the  things  which  seem. 


TEKKA   INCOGNITA.  1 19 


TERRA  INCOGNITA. 

A  little  song  has  come  to  me, 
A  strain  of  sadness  from  over  sea; 
And  I  hear  its  music,  and  love  it  well, 
Though  the  heart  which  framed  it  I  cannot  tell. 

A  little  picture  comes  to  me, 

A  dash  of  brightness  from  over  sea ; 

There  are  clasping  hands  and  a  holy  face  — 

But  the  name  of  the  artist  who  can  trace? 

So  I,  in  faith  which  comes  to  me, 

Believe  in  a  land  across  the  sea, 

Where  my  vaguest  fancies  may  stand  supreme 

In  a  grand  perfection  beyond  my  dream. 

O  land  unknown  !   in  thee  alone 

Shall  formless  lyrics  to  shape  be  grown  ; 

In  thee  all  rhapsody  riseth  true, 

And  the  thoughts  of  beauty  are  ever  new. 

O  land  unknown  !   where  all  is  best, 
In  thee  is  my  aspiration  blest; 
For  I  toil  and  tarry  until  I  may 
With  my  broken  sentences  pass  away. 


120  WOVEN  AT  ODD  HOURS. 

FROM  UHLAND. 

"  Ich  hor'  meinen  Schatz." 
I 
My  true-love  I  hear ! 

He  's  swinging  his  hammer, 
Whose  clinking  and  clamor 
Far  outward  are  rolling 
Like  chapel-bells  tolling 
Where  walls  interfere. 

Though  black  is  the  place 
Where  labors  my  lover, 
Yet,  as  I  pass  over, 
The  bellows  are  blowing, 
The  flames  are  all  glowing 

To  show  me  his  face. 


TWO    OF  A     TRADE.  12  1 


TWO  OF  A  TRADE. 

The  dragon-fly  and  I  together 

Sail  up  the  stream  in  the  summer  weather; 
He  at  the  stern  all  green  and  gold, 
And  I  at  the  oars,   our  course  to  hold. 

Above  the  floor  of  the  level  river 
The  bent  blades  dip  and  spring  and  quiver; 
And  the  dragon-fly  is  here  and  there, 
Along  the  water  and  in  the  air. 

And  thus  we  go  as  the  sunshine  mellows, 
A  pair  of  nature's  merriest  fellows; 

For  the  Spanish  cedar  is  light  and  true, 
And  instead  of  one,   it  has  carried  two. 

And  thus  we  sail  without  care  or  sorrow, 
With  trust  for  to-day  and  hope  for  to-morrow \ 
He  at  the  stern,  all  green  and  gold, 
And  I  at  the  oars,   our  course  to  hold. 


^^^MW&^F* 


ii 


122  WOVEN  AT  ODD   HOURS. 


THE  LOST  SONG. 

There  went  a  bird  away  from  me, 
In  the  stormy  winter,  across  the  sea ; 

One  sudden  day, 

All  chill  and  gray, 
Unto  new  lands  it  flew  away. 

It  took  from  hence,  beneath  its  wing, 
One  of  the  songs  I  used  to  sing  — 

A  song  more  sweet 

Than  I  can  meet, 
Wandering  on  with  weary  feet. 

But  spring  has  come,  and  now  once  more 
Hither  it  flutters  as  before  — 

Mote  dear  to  me 

Than  these  can  be, 
Because  it  has  flown  across  the  sea. 


rAGE  AXD  PAGEANT.  1 23 


PAGE  AND  PAGEANT. 

My  lord  has  revels  to-night, 

High  revel  in  hall  and  at  board; 
His  castle  flames  up  with  light, 

Which  into  the  night  is  poured. 
And  the  cressets  flare  on  the  tower, 

And  the  music  plays  within  ; 
For  a  chevalier  rules  the  hour, 

Who  comes  a  lady  to  win. 

And  I  am  a  page  —  no  more 

Than  this  —  with  a  plume  in  my  cap, 
A  lute  on  my  arm,  and  a  store 

Of  ballads ;  and  by  good  hap 
Was  chosen  long  since  to  be 

The  minstrel  to  stay  beside 
My  lady,  and  bend  the  knee 

Before  this  expectant  bride. 

What  business  was  it  of  theirs 

How  swiftly  her  glances  flew ; 
Who  studies  my  heart  or  cares 

When  the  song  and  the  dance  are  through? 
Who  dreams  that  a  page  can  soar 

In  thought  as  high  as  a  lord, 
Or  counts  me  possessed  of  lore 

Surpassing  my  lute  and  sword? 


24  WOVE  A'   AT  ODD  HOURS. 

And  here  am  I  in  the  dark, 

While  they  in  the  fullest  blaze 
Are  strolling,  and  I  can  mark 

Each  diamond's  lance-like  rays; 
And  she  is  there  with  the  rest, 

And  her  knight  all  silk  and  plume  — 
But  she  is  the  fairest  and  best 

Of  any  who  pace  the  room. 

Ah  !  yes,  it  is  over  now : 

There  were  times  when  I  thought  of  her 
That  she  bent  her  beautiful  brow 

With  love  on  her  worshipper. 
But  this  is  a  lord   of  France, 

Some  noble  of  high  degree, 
Far  better  fitted  to  dance 

Attendance  than  I  can  be. 

Yes,  yes,  they  are  calling  !     Hark  ! 

There  's  my  lord  with  his  bulldog  bass, 
Bellowing  through  the  park, 

And  the  servants  are  all  in  chase 
Of  me  !     They  would  like  to  hear 

Some  Troubadour  song,  no  doubt  — 
Well,  I'm  under  the  fern;  I  fear 

They  will  never  find  me  out. 

They  have  given  me  up.     I  thought 
They  would  come  to  that  very  soon, 

Though  my  lord  has  shouted  and  sought 
By  the  light  of  the  harvest  moon. 


PAGE  AXD   r AGE  ANT. 


12$ 


Good-by,  old  palace  of  mine, 
Where  I  sang  so  many  a  strain ; 

The  days  of  the  past  were  fine, 
But  I'm  off  to  the  world  again. 


11* 


WOVEN   ON   QUIET   DAYS. 


THE   PALMER'S   PREACHING. 

I    STOOD  in  a  dim  old  city  — 
A  city  of  other  days, 
With  many  a  stately  minster 
Amid  its  quaint  by-ways. 

And  there,  as  I  gazed  and  lingered, 
A  motley  throng  passed  by  — 

The  knight  in  his  scarlet  mantle 
The  queen  with  her  pageantry. 

The  'prentice  went  merrily  onward, 
And  jostled  among  the  best, 

With  the  burgher,  secure  in  his  riches, 
And  the  judge,   in  his  ermine  dressed. 


The  beauty  and  fame  of  the  city 
Came  ever  before  my  eyes ; 

And   I  read,   in  their  passing  faces, 
Of  the  wealthy,  the  proud,  the  wise. 

129 


1 30  WO  VEN  ON  Q  UIE  T  DA  VS. 

And  it  seemed,  as  they  still  moved  onward, 

Honored  or  rich  or  gay, 
That  a  voice  bade  me  give  attention 

To  a  palmer  beside  the  way. 

He  was  sad,  and  bowed  with  his  travel, 
And  his  face  had  a  weary  look; 

While  beneath  his  arm  he  carried 
An  old  and  sacred  book. 

He  paused  by  the  wayside,  gazing 
At  the  crowd  as  it  swept  along, 

And  he  leant  on  his  staff  and  pondered, 
(It  was  just  at  the  even-song.) 

A  look  as  of  holy  pity 

Came  slowly  across  his  face, 

And  the  rays  of  the  sun  enrobed  him 
With  a  halo  of  saintly  grace. 

v- 

And  he  stepped  him  before  the  passers, 

And,  raising  his  wasted  hand, 

Stayed  all  who  had  sought  to  hasten, 

With  a  motion  of  calm  command. 
* 

And  then  from  his  book  he  read  them 
Of  One  who  came  down  to  earth, 

And  how  He  had  bled  and  suffered, 
And  how  they  despised  His  worth. 


THE  PALMER'S  PREACHING.  131 

And  the  knight  grew  pale  as  he  listened ; 

I  could  hear  the  lady  sigh ; 
And  the  burgher  at  last  bethought  him 

Of  riches  laid  up  on  high. 

Then  the  palmer's  face  grew  grander 
With  the  gleam  of  a  saintly  love, 

As  he  spoke  of  a  Holy  City, 

Of  a  crown  that  was  kept  above. 

And  the  multitude  stood  in  silence, 

And  hearkened  as  if  for  life : 
The  lady  forgot  her  lover, 

The  soldier  forgot  his  strife. 

And  when  the  palmer  ended, 

And  lifted  his  hands  in  prayer, 
Stood  tears  upon  many  faces, 

Which  seldom  had  gathered  there. 

And  while  the  red  of  the  evening 

Closed  over  the  fading  day, 
With  better  thoughts  and  intentions 

The  multitude  went  its  way. 


It  seemed  as  if  night  and  morning 
Came  up  and  across  the  land, 

As  again  by  the  crowded  pathway 
I  thought  that  I  took  my  stand. 


132  WO  VEN  ON  Q  UIE  T  DA  VS. 

And  the  burgher  and  judge  passed  by  me. 
And  joked  as  they  walked  along ; 

And  the  song  of  the  merry  'prentice 
Outsounded  the  even-song. 

The  lady  in  silk  and  jewels, 

The  knight  in  his  trappings  gay, 

The  throng  of  the  other  evening 
Again  came  along  the  way. 

And  the  palmer  stood  there  in  silence 
With  his  book  and  his  carven  shell ; 

For  of  all  who  had  left  him  weeping, 
None  heeded  the  lesson  well. 


THE   SPIIYXX.  133 


THE  SPHYNX. 

In  the  midst  of  the  desert  sands, 

Despising  the  wasted  lands 

Which  stretch  from  between  her  hands, 

She  raises  her  silent  form  — 
Smitten  with  scath   and  scar, 
By  winds  which  come  from  afar, 
Laden,   as  tempests  are, 

With   horrors  of  howling  storm. 

What  have  I  to  do  with  thee, 
Thou  phantom   of  mystery? 
For  shapes  of  the  years  to  be 

Are  better  than  ages   past. 
How  gladly  I  then  would  turn 
From  questions  which  blanch  and  burn, 
As  matters  of  no  concern, 

As  things  which  are  not  to  last ! 

They   may  not,   they  cannot  cease 
So  soon,  though  all  else  be  peace, 
And  the  concords  of  time  increase 

With  the  ends  of  the  world  on  men ; 
For  the   problem  of  fate  and   chance  — 
Of  life,  in  the  years'   advance, 
Made   captive   by  circumstance  — 

Is  bitterer  now  than  then. 


134  WOVEN  ON  QUIET  DAYS. 

And  the  face  of  that  awful  one 
Whose  work  has  not  yet  been  done, 
Outwatching  both  storm  and  sun, 

Is  full  of  the  question  still. 
For  what  is  our  life  at  best?  — 
Is  it  a  way  unto  rest, 
Is  it  a  sneer  or  a  jest, 

Or  is  it  a  grasp  of  the  will  ? 

Not  thus  was  the  answer  told 
To  deserts   of  heat  or  cold, 
Nor  written  in  books  of  gold 

For  centuries  yet  to  read ; 
Since  only  a  chosen  few 
Have  sifted  the  false  and  true  — 
Have  seen  that  the  old  was  new, 

That  the  riddle  was  solved  indeed. 

But  the  strength  of  their  arms  is  naught 
To  conquer  the  blindness,  wrought 
Into  this  stony  thought 

By  many  a  mallet-blow; 
Until,  at  the  last,  a  day 
Shall  burst  on  the  lands  with  sway, 
Sweeping  all  doubts  away 

As  gloom  at  the  morning  glow. 

And  the  word  is  a  word  of  pain  — 
A  promise   of  loss,   for  gain; 
A  promise  of  seed,   for  grain, 


THE   SPHYNX, 


135 


!1   who  will  truth  receive. 
But,   after,   comes  gain   for  loss, 
When    harvests   merrily  toss, 
When    Crown  shall  succeed  to  Cross  ; 
And   the  word  is   the  word  "Believe! 


.'•.: 


1$6  WOVEN  ON  QUIET  DAYS. 


CIVITAS    DEI. 

"  For  my  brethren  and  companions'  sakes  I  will  now  say, 
Peace  be  within  thee  !  " 

City  of  God,  grown  old  with  silent  faces 
Lying  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  clay, 

Thine  are  the  towers  built  up  in  barren  places, 
Thine  the  great  bastions  waiting  for  the  day. 

Dim  through  the  night  stone  after  stone  arises, 
Bold  through  the  dawn  step  forth  the  peaks  of  flame, 

Touched  with  the  splendor  of  those  glad  surprises 
By  which  the  blessing  of  the  Spirit  came. 

Toilers  of  truth  are  we,  who  at  our  labor 

Keep  the  sharp  sword  still  girded  at  the  thigh, 

Heeding  no  summons  of  the  pipe  and  tabor, 
Fighting  and  building  till  the  end  be  nigh. 

Much  do  these  walls  have  need  of  earnest  valor, 
Much  have  they  need  of  plummet  and  of  line, 

From  early  morning  clad  in  whitest  pallor, 
Until  the  redness  of  the  day's  decline. 

Help  us,  our  God  !  while  men  with  keen  derision 
Mock  our  slight  structure  as  it  riseth  up ; 

Give  them  reward  of  wrath,  a  fearful  vision, 
A  bitter  drinking  of  an  evil  cup. 


CIVJTAS  DEL  137 

Help  us,  our  God  !     Despised  are  we,  and  broken 
By  many  sorrows  which  the  wicked  cause  : 

Turn  Thou  on  them  their  malice,  as  the  token 
Of  Thine  unerring,  unevaded  laws. 

Thus,  then,   we  build  through  storm  and  pleasant 
weather ; 

Thus,  then,  we  pray  by  morning  and  by  night; 
Heart  knit  with  heart,  and  hands  at  work  together  — 

Beset  by  foes  until  Thou  givest  light. 

City  of  God  !  thy  peace  is  our  petition  ; 

City  of  God!   our  brethren  dwell  in  thee; 
And  for  their  sakes,  in  true  and  deep  contrition, 

We  seek  thy  good,  O  dwelling  of  the  free  ! 


138  WOVEN  ON  QUIET  DAYS. 


THREE  IN  ONE. 

Great  was  the  mystery  to  me 

How  Three  were  One  and  One  was  Three 

How  God  alone  was  Trinity  ! 

I  read  it,  but  it  seemed  no  more 
Than  breakers  sounding  on  the  shore, 
From  deeps  I  dreaded  to  explore : 

Until  the  certainty  grew  mine 

That,  somewhere,  God  had  left  a  sign  — 

Some  symbol  perfect  and  divine. 

And,  seeking  after  this,  one  day 

The  summer  storm-clouds  cleared  away 

In  sudden  glory,  ray  on  ray: 

While  there,  serene  across  the  sky, 
The  bow  of  promise  shone  on  high, 
God's  token  that  He  cannot  lie. 

Enlightened  by  a  truth  sublime, 

I  saw  this  miracle  of  time, 

This  wonder  known  in  every  clime. 

And,  fading  each  to  each,  I  caught 
The  perfect  symbol  of  my  thought — ■ 
Three  chiefest  colors,  interwrought. 


THREE   IN  ONE.  I  39 

Three  colors  in  gradations  fair, 
Which,  mingled  ever  in  the  air, 
Bestow  what  light  we  daily  share. 

For  thus  I  saw  the  mystery, 

And  God  had  left  a  sign  to  me 

How  Three  were  One  and  One  was  Three. 


140  WOVEN  ON  QUIET  DAYS. 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER. 

I  know  not  whence  it  comes  to  me, 
This  longing,  vague  and  strange, 

For  lands  across  the  summer  sea, 
Beyond  the  thought  of  change  — 

I  know  it  not,  I  know  it  not, 

But  still  it  comes  to  me. 

I  know  not  whence  the  visions  drift, 

On  sunny  days  or  dark; 
Through  what  white   cloud,  what  fleecy  rift 

They  fell,  I  cannot  mark  — 
I  know  it  not,  I  know  it  not, 
But  still  they  come  to  me. 

I  know  not  where  the  words  are  found 

I  fashion  in  my  song ; 
What  mansion  in  the  blue  profound 

Has  held  or  holds  them  long  — 
I  know  it  not,  I  know  it  not, 
But  still  they  come  to  me. 

I  know  not  where  the  end  shall  be 
To  these,  my  hopes  and  dreams, 

Until  the  happy  land  I  see, 
Where  all  is  as  it  seems  — 

I  know  it  not,  I  know  it   not, 

Until  it  comes  to  me. 


THE  DISTANT  KING.  141 


THE  DISTANT  KING. 

My  lord,  whom  I  would  fain  obey, 

Has  left  his  realm   and  gone  away  ; 

w 

But  he  committed  to  my  hand 

More  things  than  I  could  understand. 

He  gave  to  me  the  golden  keys 
Of  honors,  ranks,  and   dignities ; 

He   placed  a  book  before   my  sight 
Wherein  my  heart  itself  may  write  \ 

He  opened  wide  a  secret  door 

Where  wealth  and  wisdom  are  in  store ; 

He  clad  me  with  a  robe  of  grace, 
And  set  me  in  his  vacant  place ; 

To  me  he  left  his  seal  of  state, 
With  counsels  of  exceeding  weight. 

'•All  things  are  yours,"   my  master   saith, 
"Save  the  control  of  life  and  death." 

And  therefore  I,   reflecting  still 
Upon  my  absent  master's  will, 


142  WOVEN  ON  QUIET  DAYS. 

Am  watchful,  both  with  hand  and  brain, 
Until  his  feet  return  again. 

And  still  there  rests  upon  my  mind 
A  thought  of  what  is  unresigned ; 

For  powers  of  life  and  death  must  be 
His  mighty  master-works  with  me. 

He  holds  them  balanced  for  my  sight, 
Sorrow  and  comfort,  dark  and  bright. 

And  so  I  wait  and  work  and  pray 
While  my  dear  lord  remains  away, 

That  at  his  coming  he  may  give 
His  last  best  gift  —  the  right  to  live  ! 


PL'LVIS  ET  UMBRA   SIM  US."  1 43 


"  PULVIS  ET  UMBRA  SUMUS." 

"  Two  handfuls  of  white  dust  shut  in  an  urn  of  brass." 

Tennyson. 

No  more  than  this?     To  die  and  fade 

Into  a  shade? 
To  be  at   last,  whate'er  our  worth, 

But  dust  of  earth? 

No  more  than  this?     To  pass  away 

From  light  and  day? 
To  be  but  ashes  at  the  best, 

An  urn  our  rest? 

No  more  than  this?     No  hope  to  cheer 

The  lonely  bier? 
No  trust  when  this  our  life   is  o'er, 

To  meet  once  more? 

Yes,  more  than  this! — a  future  rest 

Among  the  blest; 
Where,  garlanded  with  asphodel, 

We  still  may  dwell. 

Yes,  more  than  this  !     To  him  who  stands 

On  higher  lands, 
These  dim  forebodings  cease  to  be 

Eternity  ! 


144 


WOVEN  ON  QUIET  DAYS. 


Yes,  more  than  this!      No  heathen  sage 

Of  any  age 
May  dull  the  ears  which  once  have  heard 

The  Better  Word. 


PAULLUS   OR  PAUL?  1 45 


PAULLUS  OR  PAUL? 

Animae  magnse  prodigum  Paullum."  —  Horace. 
I  count  not  my  life  dear  unto  myself."  —  St.  Paul. 

Heathen  and  Christian  together! 

Lo  !   how  their  courages   meet ; 
Bravely  determining  whether 

One  can  the  other  defeat. 

Paullus  —  or  Paul  the  Apostle? 

Jove  the  Supreme  —  or  the  One 
Born  near  the  crowd  of  an  hostel, 

Claimed  for  the  Deity's  Son? 

Which   is  most  truly  heroic : 

Bravery  purchasing  fame? 
Or,  with* the  grace  of  a  Stoic, 

Parting  with  honor  and  name? 

Striving  for  chaplets  of  laurel, 
Won  by  the  sheerest  of  force? 

Or,  far  aloof  from  the  quarrel, 
Tracing  life  up  to  its  source? 

Unto  the  one  shall  be  given 
Guerdon  of  earthly  renown, 

While  for  the  other,  in  heaven, 
Waits  an  unchangeable   crown. 
13 


I46  WOVEN  ON   QUIET  DAYS. 

Which  shall  we  honor  as  hero : 
Him  whom  the  Latins  adored? 

Or  the  one  martyred  by  Nero, 
Dying  for  love  of  his  Lord? 

Heathen  and  Christian  together ! 

Let  it  be  rightly  confessed 
Glory  is  fleeting,  and  whether 

Earth  can  afford  us  the  best. 


EVAM/IT.  147 


EVANUIT. 

I  tread  the  withered  leaves  beneath  my  feet, 
Above  my  head  they  crown  the  wood  with  gold ; 

For  here  the  summer  and  the  autumn  meet, 
And  the  old  story  of  the  year  is  told 
To  wood  and  wold. 

The  blossoms  pass  through  beauty  to  decay ; 

The  rich,  full  green  grows  gilded  in  the  sun ; 
Their  strength  and  favor  gently  fade  away 

Before  the  warm,  bright  days  are  fairly  done 
Or  snows  begun. 

The  haze  of  Indian  summer  on  the  hills 
Hangs  tenderly  and  like  a  vail  of  gauze, 

Through  which  all  beauty  even  more  fulfils 
The  grand  yet  viewless  motion  of  the  laws 
Of  its  First  Cause. 

And  all  things  pass  to  death.     Ah,  is  it  so, 

That  Time  must  tread  them  underneath  his  feet  ? 

Must  blast  them  with  his  cruel  breath,  although 
They  come  not  to  perfection,  as  is  meet 
In  things  so  sweet  ? 

And  must  these  leaves  fly  off  before  the  storm  ? 

These  leaves,  so  like  unto  our  withered  days, 
Dying  in  sunlight  beautiful  and  warm, 

Decaying  in  these  cheerful  autumn  rays 
Like  transient  praise. 


I48  WOVEN  ON  QUIET  DAYS. 

Yet  be  it  glory  even  unto  these, 

That  the  great  mother  Earth  receives  them  all  ■ 
Aye,  even  as  our  bodies  when  it  please 

Our  Father  God  that  we,  as  leaves,  should  fall 
When  He  doth  call. 

And  be  it  glory  to  their  lesser  lot 

That  they  shall  not  be  lost  so  utterly  — 

Aye,  even  as  ourselves,  for  may  we  not, 
O  Lord  of  Hosts,  be  useful  unto  Thee 
Eternally  ? 

Farewell,  O  withered  leaves  !  the  tale  is  told, 
The  old,  sad  tale  of  winter  and  of  frost ; 

The  story  which  our  eyes  so  much  behold, 
Of  beauty  lavished,  and  the  final  cost 
Of  glory,  lost. 


AT   THE   SABBATH'S  CLOSE.  149 


AT  THE  SABBATH'S  CLOSE. 

Into  the  garner  of  the  past 

My  day  has  gone ; 

Its  work  has  all  been  done, 
Its  seed  been  cast. 

Whether  to  good  or  yet  to  ill 

Its  toil  shall  tend, 

Thou  knowest,   Heavenly  Friend: 
My  trust  fulfil. 

Out  of  such  empty  air  create 
Some  thoughts  divine, 
Kindled  by  word  of  mine  — 

These  consecrate. 

Saviour,  supremest,  best, 

Receive  my  day, 

And   hear  me  when  I  pray 
In  Thee  to  rest. 

So,  in  the  quiet  of  the  night 

I  lay  me  down, 

Thy  work  my  noblest  crown, 
My  chief  delight. 

"3* 


I50  WOVEN  ON  QUIET  DAYS. 


THALATTA!   THALATTA! 

The  days  which  went  so  long  ago, 

Have  come  again  to  me, 
As  now  I  tread,  with  footstep  slow, 

The  margin  of  the  sea. 

The  little  ripples  breaking  in 

Crawl  gently  up  the  sand, 
Whose  shifting  masses  seek  to  win 

Their  kingdom  from  the  land. 

A  stranded  shell,  a  bit  of  weed, 

A  slope  of  carven  beach  — 
In  such  old  characters  I  read 

Of  what  the  Past  can  teach. 

For  change  has  been  and  change  is  not 
(Since  all  is  still  the  same)  — 

Nor  do  I  reach  the  pleasant  spot 
To  which  my  boyhood  came. 

Farewell,  O  Past !  —  the  ocean  surge 

Has  torn  and  swept  away 
The  ragged  bluffs,  the  grassy  verge 

On  which  I  used  to  play. 

And  here  I  stand,  a  man  indeed, 

Upon   another  shore, 
With  other  shells  and  other  weed 

Than  I  have  seen  before. 


THAI.  ATT. I!    THAI.  ATT  A!  I  5  I 

Far  out,  the  waters  inward  bound 

Lift  lines  and  crests  of  foam  j 
Beyond  them  all  I  have  not  found 

The  rest  and  peace  of  home. 

Send  unto  me,  O  changeless  Past, 
Some  word  of  hope  and  strength, 

Which,  through  these  changes  new  and  vast, 
Shall  bear  my  soul  at  length. 

For  so  the  waters  plunge  and  sway 
While  storm  and  tide  shall  be, 

Until  we  pass,  some  happy  day, 
Across  the  Tideless  Sea. 


152  WOVEN  ON   QUIET  DAYS. 


DREAMING. 

In  the  quiet  afternoon, 

As  the  rain  drops  softly  down, 
And  the  tree-trunks,  wet  and  brown, 
Stand  like  sentries  of  the  town  — 

Then  the  light  fades  off  too  soon, 

For  my  heart  is  all  in  tune. 

Then  I  hear  each  gentle  sound 
From  the  leaves  which  stir  again 
At  the  touches  of  the  rain  ; 
And  the  moisture  on  the  pane, 
Slowly  rolling  to  the  ground, 
Has  some  sweet  expression  found. 

On  the  unjust  and  the  just 
Falls  this  benison  the  same, 
Blessing,  in  the  Father's  name, 
Home  of  love  and  haunt  of  shame, 

Cleansing  off  the  gathered  dust 

From  a  long-neglected  trust. 

And  I  dream,  I  know  not  why, 
Of  all  peaceful  things  and  sad  — 
All  the  hopes  my  life  has  had 
Since  they  dwelt  with  me,  a  lad 
From  whose  sight  this  darker  sky 
Hid  the  perfect  realms  on  high. 


DREAMING.  1 53 

Now  I  wait  in  all  content, 

Whether  skies  be  dark  or  bright ; 
Morning  follows  after  night, 
Darkness  will  be  changed  to  light; 

And  when  days  of  storm  are  spent, 

There  shall  be  a  rainbow  sent. 

So  the  leaves  may  quiver  still 

At  the  touches  of  the  rain ; 

So  the  moisture  on  the  pane 

May  be  scattered  or  remain : 
These  shall  yet  in  peace  fulfil 
Unto  me  that  Better  Will. 


1 5  4  WO  VEN  ON  0  UIE  T  DA  YS. 


THE  PAIR-OAR. 

Comrade  mine,  as  we  row  along 

By  the  fresh,  green  banks  where  the  willows  grow, 
Let  the  pulse  of  our  stroke  be  true  and  strong 

From  the  bent  blades  flickering  to  and  fro. 

Sharp  the  prow  as  it  cuts  away, 

In  a  wedge-like  furrow,  the  level  stream; 

And  the  wrinkles  run  from  the  dropping  spray 
As  our  bright  spruce  pinions  dart  and  gleam. 

Bubbles  swell  from  the  shining  track 

Of  our  keel  and  the  oar-strokes  flaring  wide, 

And  the  wake  of  foam  runs  merrily  back, 
With  its  tiny  eddies  on  either  side. 

"Now  avast !  "  and  we  lightly  float 

Into  shadow  and  coolness,  where  the  trees 

Are  a  mighty  arbor  above  our  boat, 

And  the  oars  hang  gently  and  drift  at  ease. 

Then  once  more  through  the  open  strait 

Of  the  fresh,  green  banks  where  the  willows  grow, 

On  the  homeward  stretch  —  with  a  glance  elate 
At  the  bent  blades  flickering  to  and  fro. 


THE   PAIR-OAR.  1 55 

Comrade  mine  of  the  old  pair-oar, 

Are  there  days  of  a  better  joy  than  this, 

When  we  blip  so  swiftly  beside  the  shore 

With  our  strokes  as  true  as  our  friendship  is? 

Never  long  will  the  daylight  last, 

Or  the  Spring  of  the  happy  year  endure  — 

Let  us  catch  the  pleasures  which  hurry  past, 

While  our  arms  are  strong  and  our  stroke  is  sure. 


I$6  WO  VEN  ON  Q  UIE  T  DA  VS. 


"IVSTITIA." 

A.  poor,  bruised  statue,  on  a  Venice  column, 
Which  has  no  grace  except  the  grace  of  name, 

And  yet  whose  features,  worn  and  sad  and  solemn, 
Put  the  long  record  of  the  Past  to  shame. 

A  battered  face,  whose  beauty  has  departed ; 

An  artist's  dream,  which  had  its  ending  here; 
A  hope,  which  faded  even  as  it  started, 

A  joy,  which  found  fulfilment  in  a  fear. 

But  still  no  time  destroys  what  once  was  spoken, 
No  years  can  alter  the  Divine  decree  ; 

Though  Justice  suffer,  and  her  rule  be  broken, 
The  day  has  come  when  Venice  shall  be  free. 

Not  now  a  statue  beaten  by  the  ages ; 

Not  now  a  record  of  an  evil  Past ; 
Her  glory  shall  illumine  all  the  pages 

Where  the  dark  shade  of  tyranny  was  cast. 


1867. 


FAIRY- TALES,  1 57 

FAIRY-TALES. 

To  E.  P.,  Jr.,  1S67. 

My  little  friend  with  the  golden  hair 
Rests  his  head  on  my  arm  to-night, 

As  we  sit  at  ease  in  the  great  arm-chair 
Under  the  softly-shaded  light. 

And  wonderful  fancies  come  and  go 
Over  the  depths  of  his  dreamy  eyes  : 

They  are  tokens  of  thoughts  which  spread  and  grow 
Into  a  manhood  strong  and  wise. 

He  knows  not  yet,  this  beautiful  child, 
The  things  which  trouble  an  older  brain ; 

How  the  heart  of  his  youth  may  be  defiled 
Searching  for  praise  or  planning  gain. 

But  now  he  rests,   with  his  golden  hair, 
Safe  on  my  arm  whom  doubts  assail : 

He  has  yet  his  battle  to   fight  with  care : 
All  to  him   is  a  fairy-tale. 

And  what  to  him  are  the  waiting  days 
In   which  these  pitiful   lives   go  on  ? 

What  does  he  know   of  a  thousand   ways, 
Evil  and  worse,   beneath  the  sun  ? 
14 


158  WO  VEN  ON  Q  UIE  T  DA  VS. 

Ah  !    long  may  it  be  until  he  learns 
That  fairy  visions  are  ended  quite, 

That  the  wonders  which  now  his  heart  discerns 
Never  are  seen  by  clearer  light. 

And  long  may  it  be  ere  time  erase 

The  traces  of  that  which  fades  too  soon, 

When  the  golden  moments  shall  lose  their  grace 
Under  the  glare  of  a  sultry  noon. 


THE    TWO   HEAVENS.  1 59 


THE  TWO  HEAVENS. 

•    -      T 

—  Biblia  Hebraica. 

We  make  to  ourselves  a  gladness, 

A  joy  like  the  one  above, 
When  the  toil  of  each  daily  duty 

Shall  be  wholly  done  from  love. 

Around  us  shall  spread  a  heaven, 
Be  we  never  so  weak  and  faint, 

As  the  hallowing  rays  encircle 

The  brows  of  some  pictured  saint. 

And   yet,   how  we  fail  in  trial  ! 

How  sternly  the  duties  rise  ! 
Till  it  seems  that  their  hated  presence 

Would  darken  the  very  skies. 

Ah  !   were  there  no  other  heaven 

Save  this  which  has  changed  so  soon, 

The  sky  were   indeed  but  darkness, 
The  sun  had   gone  down  at  noon. 

Yet  hearken,   O  sick  with  labor, 
O  furrowed  and  bent  with  care, 

Not  here   is  the  better  heaven, 
But  far  in  another  air. 


l6o  WOVEN-  ON  QUIET  DAYS. 

The  rays  of  a  higher  glory 

Shall  render  this  toil  sublime, 
And  lift  into  endless  ages 

The  work  we  have  wrought  for  time. 

And  so  may  the  days  be  precious, 
Though  we  wait  to  enter  there, 

And  the  very  heaven  of  heavens 
May  be  over  us  everywhere. 

Through  the  clouds  that  are  round  about  us 

We  look  to  the  upper  day, 
And  the  golden  sun,   at  his  coming, 

Shall  gather  them  all  away. 


THE   NAME   IN   THE   BARK. 


THE  NAME  IN  THE  BARK. 

In  the  bark  of  a  silver-poplar  tree, 

With  the  first  good  knife  that  I  ever  had, 

(Thinking,  perhaps,  of  destiny, 

And  the  days  of  the  future,  bright  or  sad,) 

I  carved  initials  which  mark  my  name, 

And  left  what  answered  as  well  as  fame. 

I   was  a  boy,  and   the  bark   was  hard  ; 

The   forms  of  the   letters  had  not  grown 
Into  a  symmetry  fit  to  guard 

What  I  committed  to  them  alone; 
And   so  the  hopes  of  my  youth  were  there, 
Clumsy  and  straggling  and  rude  and  bare. 

Many  a  day  had  I  left  the  spot, 

To  seek  for  a  knowledge  of  higher  things; 
With  the  broken   knife-blades  I  forgot 

The  fame  which  lifted   me  on  its  wings  ; 
But  the  tree  stood  up  in  the  mellow  light, 
And  grew  with  my  growth  by  morn  and  night. 

After  awhile  I  came  again 

To  see  the  faces  I  used  to  see  — 

To  hear  old  voices  —  and  I  was  fain 
To  visit  also  the  poplar-tree ; 

For  1   viewed   it  a<  ross  tin-  village  street, 

Wh(  i'    parsonage-garden  and  pasture  meet. 
14* 


1 62  WOVEN  ON  QUIET  DAYS. 

Ah,  me!  the  letters  were  there  indeed  — 
Those  rough  boy-carvings  of  other  days ; 

Widened  as  much  as  had  been  my  creed, 
But  failing  to  merit  a  word  of  praise; 

Burst  by  the  force  of  the  swelling  trunk, 

Yet  all  of  their  beauty  sadly  shrunk. 

I  looked  long  moments  upon  them  there, 
And  my  heart  was  full  of  a  heavy  pain ; 

For  I  thought  of  the  labor  and  the  care 
Which  cut  them  out  on  the  silver  grain; 

And  I  said,  "How  little  we  really  know 

Into  what  shapes   our  lives  may  grow  ! 

"These  fair  devices  which  suit  us  well, 
Which  seem  to  the  boy  such  a  perfect  thought, 

May  change  and  sever,  and  none  can  tell 
Into  what  fashion  they  are  wrought : 

And  the  man  comes  by,  and  says,  'Can  this  be 

The  figure  of  that  which  was  dear  to  me?'  " 

O  boy  and  man  !   on  the  smooth,  white  bark 
Of  the  days  of  our  years  there  are  many  words, 

Which  shine  phosphoric  within  the  dark, 
Or  even  have  music  like  the  birds'  ; 

But  happy  is  he  who,  with  steady  art, 

Cuts  the  great  word  God  on  his  growing  heart. 


GROFLYGS.  1 63 


GROPINGS. 

"  What  shall  we  say  but  that  the  vestiges  of  immortality  im- 
pressed upon  man  are  absolutely  indelible  ?  " — Calvin,  Inst. 
I.,  cap.  v. 

What  shall  we  say,  if  through  our  lives 
A   -olden  bond  divine  may  run 
Which  links  our  diverse  minds  to  One, 

Howe'er  this  baser  heart  contrives? 

The  mysteries  we  know  not  here, 

The  phantoms  which  escape  our  hand, 
The  hope  of  some  long-promised  land  — 

Shall  all  through  this  be  rendered  clear? 

Shall  this  return  us  back  to  God 
Diviner  than  we  dreamed  to  be  — 
This  fadeless  immortality 

Which  bears  with  us  each  earthly  load  ? 

Are  we  but  battle-grounds  at  best, 

Whereon  contend  two  shapes  unknown, 
Each  striving  for  the  central  throne, 

In  conflict  which  can  give  no  rest  ? 

Or  do  we  reach  to  either  side 

And  make  of  one  our  firm  ally  — 
Although  we  choose  scarce  knowing  why  — 

And   thus  our  fears  arc  satisfied? 


164  WOVE JV  ON  QUIET  DAYS. 

Are  we  but  driven  here  ancl  there 
With  this  bright  jewel  on  our  breast, 
Of  which  we  are  not  dispossessed 

By  years  of  sin,  or  doubt,  or  care  ? 

Shall  we  arise  at  last  by  this, 

And  be  in  purer  realms  discerned, 
Like  unto  those  who  long  have  learned 

The  way  of  Heaven's  eternal  bliss? 

Or  shall  we  sink  it  far  from  sight, 
Forget,  and  crush  it  out  of  mind, 
That,  as  we  leave  its  claims  behind, 

It  shall  debar  us  from  the  light? 

O  answer  this,  proud  soul,  to  me  ! 
Shalt  thou  go  drifting  down  the  sky, 
Or  spread  broad  wings  of  faith  and  fly 

Upward  to  Him  who  fashioned  thee? 


./    SPRING   DA  V.  l6: 

A  SPRING  DAY. 

May  iotii,  1S6S. 

Methinks  I  worshipped  God  to-day 

After  my  own  especial  way; 

For  all   the  air  with  the  early  bloom 

Was  laden,   and  Nature's  busy  loom 

Had  shifted  its  pattern  into  lines 

Of  long  green  tendrils  and  twining  vines. 

The  branches  quivered  with   leaves  anew ; 

The  springing  blossoms  had  broken  through, 

And   over  the  road  an  apple-bough 

Had   flaked  them  off  like  a  storm  just  now. 

The  Sabbath  stillness  crept  all  across 

Under  the  woods  and  on  the  moss ; 

The  quiet  light  of  the  sunset  came, 

Bearing  a  message  still  the  same ; 

A  bird  that  twittered  above  my  head 

Sang  of  the  Father's  daily  bread  ; 

I  felt  cool  grasses  beneath  my  feet, 

And  smelt  the  violets  faint   and  sweet; 

And   each  replied,   as  it  best  could  tell 

Of  the  hand  which  had  made  and  loved  it  well. 

I   may  have  dreamed,  but  it  seemed  to  me 

That  I   heard  the  same  from  a  loaded  bee, 

And  even  the   rustle   of  the  woods 

Spoke  of  those  pathless  solitudes 

Where  the  same  hand,   by  day  and  night, 

Labors  and   fashions  and   plans  aright. 


1 66  WOVEN  ON  QUIET  DAYS. 

And  so  with  the  rest  I  sang  my  song 
Of  Him  unto  whom  we  all  belong, 
And  my  heart,  though  once  it  was  dark  with  doubt, 
Turned  the  old  shapes   of  darkness  out; 
For  I  felt  that  the  Lord  of  the  world,  who  kept 
Watch  of  His  work  while  others  slept, 
Would  surely  scatter  abroad  in   me 
The  seeds  for  His   own  eternity — 
Would  gather  and  garner  from  all  my  deeds 
Some  little  wheat  out  of  many  weeds. 
And  whether  I  praised  Him  well  or  no 
I  cannot  tell,  but  a  sudden  glow 
Struck  to  my  soul,  as  though  One  divine 
Laid  His  pierced  hand  in  this  hand  of  mine. 


WEEDS.  167 


WEEDS. 

Though  we  turn-  the  furrow  with  care  and  pain, 
Though  we  break  the  clods  of  the  yielding  soil, 

Let  but  the  land  unwatched  remain, 
And  weeds  are  the   end  of  all   our  toil. 

How  deep  soever  we  drive  the   plough, 

The  evil  principles  there  abide ; 
We  know  not  why  they  have  come  nor  how, 

Nor  why  from  air  and  from  light  they  hide. 

Feathery  seeds  of  the  dandelion, 

Thistle-blows  thick  for  a  future  stock, 

Purslain  and  chickweed  and  poison-vine, 
Unendurable  yellow  dock; 

Rankest  weeds  of  disgrace  are  they, 

Changing  to  evil  our  best  intent, 
Making  the  choicest  of  crops  decay, 

Letting  our  labor  be  idly  spent. 

Ah  !  if  only  our  lives  were  free 
Of  these  analogies  sad  and  dark  ! 

Ah,  if  only  our  hearts  might  be 

Clean  of  this  curse  which  we  sternly  mark  ! 

Could  we  but  furrow  the  surface  clay, 
Farming  the  soil  of  our  souls  aright ! 

Could  we  but  tend  it  a  single  day, 

And   know   that  it  must  our  toil   requite  ! 


1 68  WOVEN  ON  QUIET  DAYS. 

Could  we  do  this !     And  yet  not  so 

Has  our  great  Husbandman  long  designed ; 

His  is  the  order  that  we  must  know, 
The  inner  as  well  as  the   outer  mind. 

And  thus  from  day  unto  day  we  strive, 
And  thus  from  day  unto  day  we  wait, 

Seeking  to  keep  our  grain  alive 

By  weeding  early  and  weeding  late. 

Faith  has  promised  a  happy  time 

When  toil  and  sorrow  at  last  are  o'er, 

When  the  grain  has  grown  in  a  favored  clime, 
And  care  is  ended  for  evermore. 

Then  shall  the  reaping  be  broad  and  grand ; 

Then  shall  our  patience  be  well  repaid ; 
Then   from  the  charge  of  a  cheerful  land, 

The  long-watched  harvest  aside  be  laid. 


MY  PREACHER.  1 69 


MY  PREACHER. 

The  Sabbath  work  is  over  and  done, 

The  cares  of  the  day  at  length  are  ended ; 

The  light  has   faded,   and   with  the  sun 

The   solemn  splendor  of  God  was  blended  — 

But  still   I   wait,    for  I  long  to   hear 

The  voice  of  one  speaking  full  and  clear. 

I  weary  at  words  which  seem  too  poor 
And  faint  and  feeble  amid  their  fashion, 

Which  never  attain  a  height  so  sure 

As  draws  the  world  from  its  pride  and  passion 

Myself  —  and  only  myself — I  hear; 

Xot  one  who  is  speaking  full  and  clear. 

The  marvellous  truth  of  Holy  Writ, 

Which  deepens  and   widens  in  its   meaning, 

Abashes  me  when   I   talk  of  it 

As   though  no  spaces   were  intervening: 

Only  a  common  voice  I  hear, 

Far  other  than  that  which  is  full  and  clear. 

Therefore  a   man  of  God  shall  come 

Out  of  my  shelves,   and  give   me  warning; 

Give  comfort,  now   that   I  long  for  some, 

Or  teach  me  meekness  instead  of  scorning  — 

A   preacher  of  Christ,   who  in  my  ear 

Shall  tell  of  a  truth   both  full  and  clear. 


170  WOVEN  ON  QUIET  DAYS. 

And  he  and  I,   as  the  midnight  nears, 
As  over  the  earth  a  stillness  hovers, 

Shall  find  an  ending  to  many  fears 

Under  the  guard  of  these   dusty  covers. 

This  is  the  man  whom  I  can  hear  — 

His  are  the  messages  full   and   clear. 

0  Preacher  of  mine,  whom,  long  ago, 

The  Lord   of  Hosts  to  Himself  hath  taken, 

1  read   with  reverence,  for  I  know 
Even  as  I  am  thou  wast  shaken. 

In  highest  honor  I  hold  thee  dear, 

For  thou  hast  been  speaking  full  and  clear. 


IN  DARKNESS,  171 


IN  DARKNESS. 

We  spend  our  years  as  an  idle  tale  — 
A  tale  that  is  told  ere  the  years  go  by  ; 

We  plan  and  labor  and  yield  and  fail, 
And  then  —  pass  into  the  boundless  sky. 

Whither  hence  shall  we  bend   our  way, 
Or  whither  hence  shall  we  follow  on? 

And  will  there  then  be  another  day 
After  the  night  of  our  life  is  gone? 

Poor,   faint  heart !  —  and  thou  dost  not  see 
The  light  which  shines  on  thy  darkest  time, 

Which  casts  a  radiance  yet  for  thee 

From  hidden  depths  of  a  further  clime  ? 

Trust  and  toil,   and  the  end  will  come, 
With  brightness  better  for  long  delay, 

With  heralding  better  than  trump  or  drum, 
And  glory  which  never  shall  fade  away. 


\J2  WO  VEN  ON  Q UIE T  DA  YS. 


AD  MEIPSUM. 

Had  I  the  words  which  weave  and  twine 
Around   dull  things  with  nature's  art  — 

Or  if  the   gift  were  only  mine 

By  some  old  power  to  touch  the  heart  — 

Then  would  I  sit  and  catch  the  notes 

Which  birds  upraise  with  happy  throats, 
And  mine  should  be  the   happier  art. 

0  master-singer  !   far  away 

Thy  strong,  free  pinions  bore  thee  on ; 
We  only  wait,  and  sadly  say, 

"The  old   heroic  times  are  gone." 
We  strike  the  strings  with  feeble  hand, 
We  wake  no  long-unheeding  land, 

Though  we  are  many,  Thou  art  One. 

Music?     This  measure  cannot  reach 

Those  clear,  sweet  heights  of  sound  serene ; 

1  fail  with  all  the  rest,  and   teach 
No  better  souls  to  stand  between 

The  throng,  who   look  with  eager  eyes 
On  unavailing  Paradise, 

And  them  who  tread  that  fadeless  green. 

But  if  God  grant  me  now  and  then 

A  verse  from  some  dear  angel's  book  — 


//)   MEIPSUM.  173 

If  He  shall  help  me  upward,  when 

It   may  be  given  that   I   look, 
For  one  brief  moment,   at  the  plan 
Framed   with   the   earth   as  time  began, 

That  shall   seem  better  which  I  took. 

And  even  as  a  child  may  tell 

Of  hidden   and   mysterious  things, 

I,  too,  may  utter  passing  well 

Our  longings,  and  the   inward  stings 

Which,  unto  every  heart  of  man 

Born   with  our  being,  under  ban, 
Forever  this  existence  brings. 

Then,  if  the  breath  of  some  new  thought 
Thrills  the  slow  music   of  the  time  — 

If  hopes  of  higher  help  are  brought 
Out  of  another,  purer  clime  — 

If  men  grow  better,  and  their  hearts 

Lighten,  through  this,  the  best  of  arts, 
I  shall  have  prospered  with  my  rhyme. 


15 


r},^ 


SHREDS   AND   TAGS. 


DIES  IR^. 


[. 


DAY  of  wrath,  thine  awful  morning 
Burns  to  ashes  earth's  adorning, 
As  the  saint  and  seer  give  warning. 

II. 

Then  what  terror  of  each  nation 
When  the  Judge  shall  take  His  station, 
Strictly  trying  His  creation  ! 

III. 

When  the  trumpet-tone  of  thunder, 
Bursting  bands  of  tombs  asunder, 
Bids  men  face  that  throne  of  wonder. 


IV. 

Death  and   Nature   He  surprises, 
Who,   a  creature,    yet    arises 
Unto  those  most  dread  assi/cs. 


»77 


I78  SHREDS  AND    TAGS. 

V. 

There  that  written  book  remaineth 
Whose  sure   registry  containeth 
That  which  all  the  world  arraigneth. 

VI. 

Therefore,  when  He  judgeth  rightly, 
We  shall  view  each  act  unsightly : 
Nothing  shall  be  pardoned  lightly. 

VII. 

With  what  answer  shall   I  meet  Him, 

By  what  advocate  entreat  him, 

When  the  just  may  scarcely  greet  Him? 

VIII. 

King  of  mightiest  coronation, 

Some  through  grace  gain  approbation  — 

Save  me,   Source  of  all  salvation ! 

IX. 

Hear  me,   O  thou  Holy  Saviour, 
Brought  to  earth  through  my  behavior  — 
Take  not  then  away  Thy  favor. 

X. 

Seeking  me,  Thy  love  outwore  Thee, 
And  the  cross,  my  ransom,  bore  Thee  : 
Let  not  this  seem  light  before  Thee. 


DIES  JR.K.  179 

XI. 

Righteous  Judge  of  my  condition, 
Grant  me,  for  my  sins,  remission, 
Ere   the  day  which  ends  contrition. 

XII. 

In  my  guilt,   for  pity  yearning, 
With  my  shame  my  face  is  burning ; 
Spare  me,  Lord,  to  Thee  returning  ' 


'O 


XIII. 

Thou,  once  touched  by  Mary's  crying, 
Who  didst  save  the  thief,  though  dying, 
Gavest  hope  to  me  when  sighing. 

XIV. 

Poorly  are  my  prayers  ascending, 
But  do  Thou,  in  mercy  bending, 
Leave  me  not  to  flames  unending. 

XV. 

Give  me  with  Thy  sheep  a  station, 
Far  from  goats  in  separation  — 

On  Thy  right  my  habitation. 

XVI. 

When  the   wicked   meet  conviction, 
Doomed  to  fires  of  sharp  affliction, 

Call   me   forth   with  benediction. 


l8o  SHREDS  AND    TAGS. 

XVII. 

Now  I  pray  Thee,    naught  commending, 
Flames  of  pride  to  ashes  tending: 
Guard  me  then  when  earth  is  ending. 

XVIII. 

O  that  day  so  full  of  weeping, 
When,   in  dust  no  longer  sleeping, 
Man  must  face  his  worst  behavior ; 
Therefore,  spare  me,   God  and  Saviour ! 


^S 


THE   IDEALS.  15 1 

THE  IDEALS. 

"  Und  wilt  du  treulos,"  etc.  —  Schiller. 

And  wilt  thou,  faithless,  from  me  sever. 

With  fancies  which  were  once  so  sweet, 
With  all  thy  griefs  and  joys,  and    never 

Relenting,  stay  thy  rapid  feet? 
Can  nothing  hold  thee  as  thou  fliest, 

O  golden  time  of  life,  for  me  ? 
In  vain  !   thy  surge  sweeps  ever  highest, 

Into  the  vast,  eternal  sea ! 

Gone  are  those  suns  which  shone  so  brightly, 

Which  cheered  for  me  my  youthful  way ; 
And  those  Ideals  sink  as  lightly, 

Which  once  my  heart  could  not  allay. 
For  it  is  fled,  that  sweet  confiding 

In  nature  which  produced  my  dream, 
And  now,  before  the  world's  harsh  chiding, 

Godlike  and  fair  no   more  shall  seem. 

As  once,  with  deep  and  strong  devotion, 

Pygmalion  embraced  the  stone, 
Till  in  its  marble  cheek  the  motion 

Of  life  in  glowing  rapture  shone  — 
So  did  I  throw,  with  youthful  yearning, 

About  the  earth  a  lover's  arm, 
Till,  on  my  poet-bosom  burning, 

She  breathed  and  moved,   becoming  warm; 
16 


1 82  SHREDS  AND    TAGS. 

And  sharing  these  my  fond  caresses, 

She  who  was  dumb  found  speech  at  last, 
Repaid  again  my  loving  kisses, 

And  read  my  fancies  as  they  passed. 
Then  did  the  trees  and  flowers  adore  me, 

Then  sang  to  me  the  waterfall 
In  silver  notes,  while  round  and  o'er  me 

I  found  my  echoed  life  in  all. 

How  strives  the  weak  and  struggling  spirit 

To  grasp  the  world  which  rims  it  round, 
To  try  this  life  upon  its  merit 

In  thought  and  word,  in  shape  and  sound  ! 
How  rare  appeared  this  earthly  fashion 

So  long  as  in  the  bud  it  grew ! 
How  poor  and  worthy  of  compassion 

The  feeble  bloom  it  tended  to ! 

How  springs,  by  lofty  courage  hastened, 

The  youth  upon  the  path  of  life, 
Whose  dreams  no  sorrow  yet  has  chastened, 

Or  proved  them  with  delusion  rife ! 
Up  in  the  limits  of  the  ether 

His  eye  discerns  the  palest  star; 
His  soaring  fancy  bears  him  thither 

On  wings  which  seek  the  high  and  far. 

How  lightly  is  he  onward  speeding  ! 

What  can  be  hard  to  one   so  free? 
While  still  before  Life's  steeds  unheeding 

Dance   on  a  merry  company. 


THE  IDEALS.  I  S3 

Here's  Love  which  knows  no   vexing  quarrel, 
Here's   Fortune  with   her  golden   crown, 

Here's   Glory  with   his  wreath  of  laurel, 

And   Truth  on  whom  the  sun  shines  down. 

Yet,   ah  !    midway  upon  the  journey 

The   comrades  turn  their  steps  aside ; 
They  are   but   faithless   in  the  tourney, 

They  fail  so  soon  as  each   is  tried. 
Swift-footed   Happiness  is  vanished, 

The  soul  thirsts  on  unsatisfied ; 
By  doubt's  dark  cloud   the   light  is  banished, 

And  Truth's  bright  form   is  undescried. 


I  saw  the  holy  crown   of  Glory 

Debased   upon  a  worthless  brow  ; 
Alas :    how  short  proved   Love's   glad  sto 

Its  brief,  rich   spring  is   perished   now. 
And   thus   it  stiller  grew,  and   ever 

Deserted  stretched  the  rugged   way; 
Hope  trembled  at  my  side,   and  never 

Shed   in  advance  a  cheering  ray. 


IV 


Of  all  the  joyous  comrades  by  me, 

Who  stays   with   loving  glances  yet  ? 
Who  stands  yet  true  and  trusting  nigh   me, 

And   follows  till   my  sun  be  set? 
Dear  Friendship,  thou  alone,  who  healed 

My  wounds  with  soft  and  tender  hand, 
Who  all   my  cares   and  burdens  fee. 

Whom   early  I  could   understand. 


1 84 


SHREDS  AND    TAGS. 


And  thou,  brave  Labor,  who  so  gladly 

Canst  aid  to  calm  the  heaving  breast, 
Who  buildest  joyfully  or  sadly, 

Destroying  naught,  nor  needing  rest  — 
Thou  who  to  those  eternal  ages 

Givest  but  these  poor  grains  we  seem, 
And  yet,  through  whom,  Time's  guilty  pages 

These  moments,  days,  and  years  redeem. 


THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  THREAD. 


7MIESE  have  I  woven. —  Thou  dost  know, 
Dear  Only  One,  how  often  here 
The  patterns  on  the  fabric  grow 

In  the  old  shapes  of  Jay  and  year ; 
How  often,  watching  friend  and  foe, 
I  made  their  faces  reappear. 

To  thee  eaeli  story  of  the  past, 
Dug  from  a  dusty  book  or  brain, 

Has  memories  upon  it  east 

To  make  the  dim  illusion  plain : 

The  sun  is  as  we  saw  it  last ; 

The  fresh  Spring-days  return  again. 

O  "wondrous  web  of  human  life  ! 

Thy  Warp  and  Woof  of  circumstance, 
Now  bright  witli  calm  or  dark  with  strife, 

Has  felt  the  rapid  shuttle  glance, 
And  known  the  days  with  fancies  rife, 

And  watched  design  contend  with  chance. 


The  thoughts  which  crowded  took  the  pen  — 
That  wondrous  shuttle — flying  in 

187 


1 88  THE   BREAKING    OF   THE    THREAD. 

And  out  among  the  ways  of  men ; 

Which  caught  such  patterns  as  begin 
Where  hearts  are  best,  and  wove  them  when 
The  other  looms  had  ceased  their  din. 

Thou    Only  One,  to  thee  alofie 

Such  things  are  opened,  sure  and  true  — 
As  well  these  fancies  of  my  own 

As  those  which  former  workmen  drew : 
Take  then  the  things  which  thou  hast  known, 

Take  the  whole  fabric,  old  and  new! 


